


A Spider's Wings

by KiiroFukurou (MissMooch)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: (more to come) - Freeform, Alois being a little shit, Alternate Universe (kinda), Arranged Marriage, Backstories on backstories on backstories, Claude being a big shit, Combined manga and anime canon, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-binary character, OCs - Freeform, Slow Burn, Too many Irish sayings, humor?, inaccurate international agreements between ireland and britain, inaccurate late 19th century business tactics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 90,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMooch/pseuds/KiiroFukurou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary on FF.net from 2011: Alois and Claude are after Ciel. As per usual. But what happens when Alois is forced to marry an Irish nobleman's daughter to settle disputes between Ireland and Britain? What will be his downfall? His flamboyancy? His psychotic tendencies? Who knows?</p><p>2016 Addition: Set in some alternate reality where Alois didn't die, the two earls/butlers kinda stopped badgering each other for a while, things returned to semi-normal as Ciel and Sebastian went along with the events in the manga (Circus Arc, etc.), and where the author has way too much time on her hands and thinks about Canon mixture between anime and manga instead of brainstorming her English paper. Hoo-rah!</p><p>[I'm terrible at summaries but there you go? I think? If I come up with something better you can believe that That Horrible Summary™ will change faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wing... heh, /wing/. Cuz... cuz the title, right? Eh? Eh?? ... I need a drink...]</p><p>FF.net link to original publication: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7265986/1/A-Spider-s-Wings</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Earl Alois Trancy, The Future Ladies Man

**Author's Note:**

> Nooow this is a story all about how... I hecked up and ended up drawing out this fic for five years...
> 
> Greetings! I have this posted on FF.net under the same name and wanted to give it a go on AO3. 
> 
> I'm working on the latest chapter now (6/30/16), should be up... know what, I won't put a date because I'll put it off and it'll never be done. Go figure. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm not as much into Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji anymore (I still read the manga once in a while, but eh) but THIS. Ohhhh I have been ruminating on this story for years, I tell you, YEARS. I like to think of it as the magnum opus of my teen/young adult life. I really hope I finish it.
> 
> Well, I'll shut up. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \--Kiiro

_Man is incomplete until he marries. After that, he is finished._

_\--Irish Saying_

“Claude…”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Do I really have to get married?”

Two emotionless, golden eyes glanced upward into the rather bored-looking, pale blue ones before them. After a slight pause, the stoic butler returned his attention back to the young master’s half-buttoned, forest green vest.

“Yes, Your Highness. For it is Her Majesty, the Queen’s, desire,” he monotonously replied as the young master rolled his eyes, “that Earl Alois Trancy be wed before the year’s end.”

Alois groaned while Claude Faustus, the head butler of the Trancy household, finished with the buttons and left to fetch his master’s boots. The blonde boy of nearly eighteen years of age carelessly flopped back onto his bed in misery.

“After all, My Lord, you have no known relatives of whom a young earl such as yourself would marry,” Claude paused. Butler and master exchanged tense glances before he continued. “Therefore, Her Majesty feels it fit that you be married to the young lady of Her choosing.”

Alois moaned across the room, “But Claude… I do not _want_ to ‘be wed before the year’s end.’” He ended in a pitiful, overly-dramatic interpretation of his butler. “If I accept this, I only have six months left as a free man! Do you know how that feels, Claude?”

Claude turned from his position by the closet and nudged his glasses farther up his nose with his forefinger, sending a menacing flash of reflected light from the morning sun across the room.

“I guess not…” Alois mumbled.

“Do not forget, My Lord, that once you are married to Lady Gallagher, international circumstances within the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland will strengthen, as well as several…”

Alois groaned again, letting his mind wander away from his emotional-capacity-of-a-brick-wall butler. After all, he had heard this speech before. Several times.

Anyway, what did he care? He still had to marry—such a realization seemed quite troublesome to him—at his ripe age. He rolled onto his side and fiddled with the intricate quilted patterns on his bed, aimlessly thinking of all the fun he will miss after becoming a _husband._ He shuddered at the word.

“The _Queen…_ ” He scoffed under his breath, “What does _she_ know…”

“…And also, your status among the aristocrats of Europe will grow, as well as your power and influence among International leaders…”

Alois’s eyebrow shot up. He flipped his blonde head around at Claude, stray strands falling in his face, a cruel smile growing on his mouth. Overall, he had the expression of a madman.

“Power, you say?”

Claude remained silent. The young earl rose from the bed and slowly strode across the room to the large window overlooking the courtyard, his shadow of a butler following close behind him. The other servants were already up and about with their daily chores, some of which tended the attractive garden below. Alois clasped his hands behind his back.

“Power, as in, resources that could help insure a certain person’s assimilation to me.” It was more of a realization than a question. The cruel smile grew more menacing as the earl ran a hand along the window sill, feeling the cool marble and relishing the thought of his imminent conquest.

 “Or me…” Claude uttered almost-inaudibly, then looked away from his young master, out in the distant direction of the equally elegant Phantomhive mansion, where a _better_ , or to be crude, _tastier,_ soul lie in waiting.

“Ah… Claude…?” Alois mumbled nervously.

Claude’s attention snapped back to his young master. This was no time to daydream. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“I have a slight problem with all this…” he rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, his other hand on his left hip.

“Your Highness…?”

Turning with a dramatic hair flip, Alois Trancy flashed a smile and a big wink at the dark, spidery butler, then said in a slightly more flamboyant tone, “I’m not even sure if I swing that way, Claude!” He finished it off with a good, hearty, absolutely-manly giggle.

And just like that, all of Claude Faustus’s daydreams came crashing down in a large, hopeless heap.


	2. Lady Aoife Gallagher of Northern Ireland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where we test how good I am at making OCs... Pray for me.  
> 

_It's why women marry - the creatures, God bless them, are too shy to say no._

_\--Irish Saying_

In the late morning sun, the glossy new engine to the 11 A.M. train sped along the tracks through the quaint English countryside. Its destination: the year-old Amersham Station in Amersham, Buckinghamshire, England. Naturally, this was a special train, carrying an important key that would strengthen the ties within Great Britain and its outward Empire.

Such a key was, at present, pressing her face up against the train’s window, admiring the fields and wildflowers of the countryside. Her breath fogging up the glass, she kneeled on her seat and opened the window, her long orange curls bouncing rapidly in the wind.

“Aoife Gallagher! You sit down _this instant!”_

The sharp yell from the older woman sitting in the adjacent seat made the youth jump and quickly shut the window. Adjusting her floral hat and smoothing out her dark green summer dress, she peered across at her earnestly, “Sorry, Mother…”

The woman, with similar curls—just a tad bit of gray here and there—and more homely attire, dropped her knitting needles and planted her hands on her hips. She stared across the seat at her daughter’s emerald green eyes with her hazel ones.

“Just how old do you think you are? In case you have not noticed it yet, my dear, but we are on the way to meeting your future husband.”

Aoife looked down at her hands in her lap and fiddled with the emerald ring on her left middle finger. She had noticed, alright. It had been on her mind for a long time now.

Madame Hazel Gallagher, named for her eyes, softened her expression and put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Forgive me Aoife. I just believe it would be in our best interest if you behave yourself.”

Aoife smiled ruefully up at her mother, “I know, Mother. It is just a wee bit difficult for me, as I am sure you can imagine.”

Madame Hazel sighed, a slight smile touching her lips. “Too much like your Father, you are…”

Aoife perked up at the mention of the Lord of the most esteemed residence of Northern Ireland, Lord Murrough Braden Gallagher. Ever since her childhood, Aoife had always looked up to the spry, intelligent man whom she spent at least half of her time with—running through the fields surrounding the ancient castle that was the Gallagher residence, riding horseback through the woods to the east of the gardens, playing _fidchell_ for hours until one of the maids found father and daughter passed out together in the plush armchairs of the study, a game half-played between them. He was quite an active and adventurous lord, thinking of his family far before industry. Similar traits, rumor has it, were passed along to his only daughter.

Aoife stared into her mother’s eyes, offering her a sad smile in return. "It’s been seven years, hasn’t it?"

They looked at each other for a long time, a silent understanding passing between them. Madam Hazel’s eyes watered with tears as she put her arm around her daughter.

"Yes, dear. It has. Seven very long years."

Aoife put her head on her mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes, forbidding herself from crying. She could still see the remnants of the fire that took nearly half the population of the already-dwindling town; the flames as they erased everything that she had cherished dearly in her life; her father’s smiling face as he rode off to the town to conduct business with his partner earlier that day. It had never occurred to her that it would be the last time she would be privileged enough to see that smile...

One tear rolled silently down Aoife’s cheek. She quickly wiped it away. Crying was not an option anymore. She had to be strong if she was going to be the next head of the Gallagher household. Or, as circumstances seemed, the wife of the head of an esteemed Englishman’s household.

Aoife was reluctant to making the commitment, though. Marrying someone she did not even know? From a different country, no less! This went way beyond her ways of handling things— _These crazy Englishmen and their forced marriages..._  she thought. Had it been totally up to her, she would have declined instantly.

But it was not up to her, and she would have to deal with that the rest of her life—that she had no say in her own marriage.

Sitting up straight, Aoife crossed her arms and stared out the window again. Their sentimental moment over, Madam Hazel dried her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and resumed her knitting.

This wasn’t about her, anyway. Or about her future husband. Or even the Gallagher name, for that matter. It was all politics. All for power and money. All the things her father tried to keep away from her.

 _"...For the good of the relations between Ireland and England under the great flag of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, it is the belief that a binding through marriage would settle some tensions as well as suite both the Gallagher Family and..."_ That was what the Queen of England had said in her letter.

She sighed. No matter how much Aoife was against it, it was her duty as an Irish noblewoman and as a Lady of the Gallagher household to assist her homeland—that much she realized. She was sure her father would have understood and supported her decision fully.

With that thought, Aoife jumped up from her seat and took a proud stance, one hand on her hip, one pointing upward. "I shall be strong! For Ireland!" she shouted triumphantly, just as the train made a rather sharp turn. Aoife was thrown to the floor with a thump, making her mother drop her knitting and go into hysteria.

"AOIFE! EXACTLY HOW OLD ARE YOU?" A vein pulsed by her temple as she watched her daughter laugh from her position on the floor.

"Sorry, Mother!" she gasped between bouts of giggles.

"Honestly! Why will you not act a bit more like Bridget?" The Madam jerked her thumb behind her, pointing at the meek, chocolate-brunette maid girl in the seat behind them, reading  _The Primrose Path_. The Head Gallagher Household maid jumped at the sound of her name and squinted at the two mistresses from behind her cracked reading glasses. Realizing they were not talking directly to her, she cleared her throat and continued to read her book.

Aoife’s mother continued, giving her daughter a harsh glare, "I’m starting to think she would make a better wife than you, as of now. Maybe she should marry the earl." She finished with a smirk and looked away from her daughter.

Bridget, on the other hand, turned a peculiar shade of red and gave her mistress a worried look, "Madam! You don’t really mean..."

"Of course not, dearie, now read your book," Madam Hazel whispered to her with a too-sweet smile.

Aoife’s smile left her face. She stayed sitting on the floor, her legs brought up to her chest, arms folded across her knees, sulking.  _I won't ever act like Bridget, Mother,_ she thought,  _Because I don’t have a stick up my arse, that's why._

Blowing an orange strand of hair from her forehead, she wondered what her future husband looked like, if he was tall, handsome, romantic, if he was kind and intelligent, like her father. The thought calmed her nerves as she fell asleep on the floor of the train.

_Earl Trancy..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the love of all that is holy, please take these notes from the original 2011 publication on FF.net:
> 
> 1\. Fidchell is an old Irish board game similar to chess. Google it~
> 
> 2\. I tried to be as historically and geographically accurate as possible. Please inform me if I made any mistakes. 
> 
> 3\. Also, now that you've heard the names... Lady Aoife (Pronounced kind of like "Eva" or "Ay-fa") Gallagher, Madame Hazel McLaughlin Gallagher, Lord Murrough Braden Gallagher and Bridget NoLastName © KiiroFukurou.
> 
> Back here in 2016, I'd prefer no flack for my name choices, particularly Aoife... So yes, it's "Eva" or "Ay-fa" not "AH-WEE-FAY." Ugh I cringe just writing it.
> 
> Later, gators!  
> \--Kiiro


	3. Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where things besides character introductions start to happen.
> 
> Well, sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In going through these chapters on FF.net I'm noticing my previous, unhealthy addiction to the tilde (~).  
> ...  
> ~~~This~~~  
> ~~~~is~~~~  
> ~~stupid~~
> 
> ~~Kiiro

_Marry a mountain girl and you marry the whole mountain._

_\--Irish Saying_

A deep sigh broke the silence of the mid-afternoon heat. A few seconds later, a dull _thunk_ echoed throughout the open, empty foyer as Alois banged his head on the front door.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” he murmured to the floor, then leaned his head back to stare up at the high ceiling. For a moment he watched the dust particles dance in the sunlight streaming from the open window. He sighed again.

He was serious now. Everyone was serious. There was to be no more fooling around in the Trancy household after this day.

That was the one thing Alois truly loathed about this plan. No fun.

It seemed simple enough. Get married. Get power. Get Phantomhive without breaking their armistice. Done. His revenge would be complete and everyone would end up happy. Well, except Michaelis, but that was basically the point of the plan. The clean-cut, perfect plan. Yet, Alois had a slight premonition that the marriage part would not be as easy as he had hoped.

Alois brushed a blonde tendril out of his eye and slowly crossed the large, open room, his boots clicking on the clean marble, to sit with a flop on the grand staircase. He pondered on his prospected engagement and hung his head in misery. To put it bluntly, Alois Trancy was not a ladies man. He could barely constitute as a man at all—not that he minded. So… how exactly would he be able to make this Irish girl happy enough to agree to the terms of the proposal? With his _wit_ and _charm?_ His _kindness_ and _intelligence?_

Alois snorted a laugh, then crossed his legs and lay back on the carpeted steps. _Fat bloody chance,_ he thought with a sneer.

Why should he care, anyway? It’s not like he was going to have to make her fall in _love_ with him or anything… This was not a fairy tale, after all. This was marriage. A bargain between two people. Solely business. She would be helping her country; he would be helping his country of one: himself. Like so many people before her, _Lady Gallagher_ would just become another exploit – another notch on Alois’s belt—to reach the ultimate goal.

_“Ciel Phantomhive…”_

The name came out as somewhat of a mix between a hiss and a chuckle. Alois grinned and poked at a spider’s web occupying a space in the staircase balustrade. His eyes and smile widened as the web was ripped to shreds. _He’ll pay for what his_ butler _did to…_

Alois sat up abruptly. A thought occurred to him.

 _She—_ this Lady Gallagher—was a _woman_ : an entity mysterious to the young earl, despite his age (he had a slight tendency to scare them off). And from what Alois had heard in old stories, no matter what a woman said, she would always secretly want love in marriage.

“Tch,” Alois scoffed, leaning back against the stairs and examining his perfectly-done nails in the light, “Love.”

Sure, Alois knew how to love. He loved lots of things. He loved fish and chips. He loved bluebells. He loved that butterfly he caught a few years back… before he ripped its wing off and locked it in a cage… until it died… four hours later…

But most of all, he loved Claude. He loved Claude because he was bound to Alois, just as much as Alois was bound to Claude. His personal demon butler would—could—never leave him.  He would make sure of that.

He would never be alone. Never again.

The thought comforted Alois, just as always. With a slight chuckle, he closed his eyes and smiled. His thoughts eventually drifted back to his future bride. The smile faded. _Ugh._

The whole situation was troublesome. He hoped with every fiber of his being that this girl would share his thoughts of the affair. Still, just to be on the safe side…

“Claude?”

The somber butler morphed out of the shadow of a nearby doorway, his eyes dully glued to his young master.

Alois figured that since Michaelis had intuition on this sort of stuff (as he had heard explicitly from several of his sources), his own butler might, as well.

“How do I woo a girl?” He asked it so casually, so plainly, that Claude’s eyebrows rose high in surprise. The butler began to relish the thought of his young master rising out of his rut of flamboyant immaturity. Were that to happen, he— _they_ —could have Phantomhive in their clutches without a hitch.

“Well, Your Highness, I believe the best possible way in such a situation is to…” Claude had to think up something fool-proof, quickly. He searched his demon mind for any sensual or alluring concept that would surely assist the young earl. He found none and went with the old save-all axiom, “…perhaps… be yourself?”

Something seemed to click in His Highness’s head. “Oh, so… give just her the ol’ Alois charm, eh Claude?” Alois licked his finger and touched his behind, making a sizzling noise with his teeth. He then proceeded to make other profane gestures and dance around Claude, occasionally clapping and shouting _“Olé!”_

Claude stood there, dumbfounded. He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Four years of this and the demon was still perplexed by the boy’s behavior.

“Your Highness?” Alois paused mid-hip-thrust and looked back at Claude. “Disregard that suggestion. It was a mistake on my part.”

“A mistake? But…”

Claude placed his hands on the young master’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “No matter what you do, Your Highness, absolutely _do not_ be yourself.” His grip on Alois’s shoulders tightened.

Alois looked up at him pleadingly. “Then what do I do, Claude? Teach me!” he said, clutching the lapel of the butler’s jacket.

They gazed at each other for a while—butler and master, ever bound by a devilish deal—until Claude looked away and snapped his fingers. Immediately a maid, Hannah, and three identical servants, Thompson, Timber, and Cantebury, materialized from the nearest door and hastened to Claude’s side.

Claude stood before his staff, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Lady Gallagher’s arrival calls for drastic changes in behavior of _certain people,_ ” Claude eyed Alois over his shoulder for a brief moment before continuing, “As such, we must all maintain a polite, elegant, and… cheerful atmosphere.” The last bit came out strained.

Hannah raised her light eyebrows in surprise. The triplets turned and whispered to each other, nodding and casting quick glances at Alois, who scowled in disgust.

Claude spun around on his heel and stepped toward His Highness, golden eyes blazing. “We all must put up the façade. You must be the most perfect, polite, elegant gentleman possible, Master.”

“Be a gentleman, eh?” Alois pursed his lips and rubbed his chin in thought. With an overly-emphasized flourish of his hand, Earl Trancy bowed extremely low to Claude and spoke with grandeur, “Why helloooooo~ there, Lady Gallagher. It is positively _lovely_ to make your acquaintance, my fragile little blossom,” Alois snatched Claude’s hand and kissed it, to which Claude inwardly grimaced. “I hope you enjoy your _lovely_ stay at my _lovely_ manor as my _lovely_ wife. Or perhaps I should say _our_ lovely manor.” With that, Alois looked up and winked at his butler, then giggled and spun away—ballerina style.

Claude turned to his staff, who each shook their heads rapidly in turn. Still showing no emotion, the spidery butler sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Again. For a brief moment, he looked up, searching for any last bit of hope of gentlemanliness in His young Highness. Alois, having ceased his ballerina routine, stood with a hand on his hip, tapping his foot and examining his nails… again. The youth then proceeded to pick a bit of leftover lunch out of his molar with a pinky finger.

Claude mentally sank. He dropped his forehead into his palm and thought, _Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless._

With a glance at the grandfather clock in the next room and a last look at his demon staff, Claude Faustus, head butler, rolled up his sleeves and said, “Well, we have about an hour and a half before Lady Gallagher’s arrival. I say we get to work on your Gentleman’s Lessons, Your Highness.”

Alois looked up, his pinky finger still excavating around his bicuspid.

“Gentleman’s Lessons…?” He gulped. Something about the way Claude said that gave him an awful knot in his stomach…

 

* * *

  

Miles away from the frenzy that was soon to erupt in the Trancy Mansion, a similar frenzy was erupting in a small horse-drawn carriage. Aoife Gallagher sat closest to the window, as usual, taking in the sights of the shady road as the carriage clopped along. Something about the way the afternoon sun broke the through the trees reminded her of home. It was… comforting.

Of course, it was somewhat difficult to reminisce through Madame Gallagher’s fussing.

“Aoife, you must be the most perfect, polite, elegant, and _grown up_ lady you can be,” she said extravagantly, adjusting any bit of Aoife’s person she could reach. Aoife rolled her eyes and shifted in her seat. “Present yourself with poise. Remember, you are a woman of Ireland. You are strong, dependable—oh, darling, fix your hat—and positively lovely to boot.”

Madame Hazel Gallagher held up a mirror to her own face and fixed a few stray curls. Aoife scoffed, “I think you’re a wee bit more preoccupied with your own appearance at the moment…”

“What was that, Aoife?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

“Well stop muttering to yourself. It’s unladylike.”

Aoife groaned and leaned her head on the window, becoming lost in the endless trees that slid by. A few minutes passed by in blissful silence. She closed her eyes, imagining Earl Trancy welcoming her with open arms…

“Darling?” Aoife cringed at her mother’s beckoning.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Did you powder your face this morning?”

“No, Mother.”

“What?! Well, why in heavens not? This is England, m’dear. Every respectable lady powders her face. What do you think, Bridget?”

 _Here we go again…_ Aoife thought as her maid timidly peeked over her book over in the corner of the carriage. Adjusting her glasses, Bridget blushed and said softly, “From what I’ve read, Madam, women of the area do pride in their appearance. However, I do not believe they go to such extremes as to always—”

“See there, Aoife?” Madame Gallagher interrupted, sending Bridget to plunge back into her secluded corner. Placing a hand on her daughter’s knee, Madame Gallagher continued, “Take pride in your beauty. You have such a lovely face. Now if I could just have a look-see…”

She examined her daughter’s face (with some difficulty, as Aoife still had her forehead pressed against the window) and winced. “Aoife, you ought to cover up those freckles…” She then dug into her purse for her emergency powder and brush. “You look like a spotted goat…”

Aoife stared at her mother in horror and pressed her palms against her cheeks. “Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind? That is one ghastly thing I will not do, Mother! I could care less about the trends of _the modern Englishwoman._ ” The last words came out as a hiss. “So now, if you please, let me be myself.”

Madame Gallagher stared blankly at her daughter. After a few minutes, she sat back against the padded seat of the carriage and looked away from Aoife.

“Fine,” she said with no emotion, setting Aoife on edge, “If that is how you shall act for your country’s welfare, then so be it.” Madame Gallagher folded her hands in her lap and peered out the window on the other side of the carriage. “With your attitude, I pity Earl Trancy.”

That stung. After a few seconds, Aoife opened her mouth to retaliate, then thought better of it and snatched the powder and mirror from her mother’s lap. She would rather let her dignity suffer than have Earl Trancy think little of her just due to her appearance. Truth be told, she was awfully nervous.

Plus, dealing with a cross Hazel Gallagher was never pleasant.

She hadn’t covered up two freckles when she heard a shout from outside. Suddenly something collided with their carriage, sending it wheeling to the edge of the road and fiercely jostling its occupants.

Aoife and Madame Gallagher had fallen to the floor and were trying to rise with Bridget’s assistance when the carriage sped forward without warning and began to tip sideways. Madame Gallagher clutched her daughter and maid protectively as they all tumbled to the carriage floor once again.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Bridget’s query quickly morphed into a scream as the carriage fell over on its side with a resounding crash. Then… silence.

Aoife unfolded herself from the crook of her mother’s arm and looked around the sideways carriage. They were frazzled and a tad bruised but seemed to be fine nonetheless.

Someone knocked on the door above their heads and called, “Mistresses! Are you unharmed?” It was the coachman, most likely.

Madame Gallagher fixed her hat so she could see and knocked back on the door. “Worry not, Andrew, we are perfectly fine—” She let out a painful cry and looked toward her left arm, still pinned underneath Bridget.

Bridget quickly scuttled away. “Madam, you are injured!” she yelped, examining her arm anxiously. Madame Gallagher brushed her away.

“Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine…” She winced and cradled her arm against her chest. “It just… twinges a bit… Now help me out of here.”

Aoife pushed against the door above her head and eventually it opened. Together, she and Bridget hoisted Madame Gallagher out of the fallen carriage. From the look of things, the horses had run away and the carriage that had hit them was just on the other side of the road. Andrew was hurrying over to presumably apologize, despite the fact that the crash was entirely the fault of the other carriage, when the coach door burst open with a bang. A polished, black, heeled boot stuck out the door.

Bridget’s eyes widened. “D-did someone just… kick open that door?”

“I do believe so,” Aoife replied in awe.

“How improper,” Madame Gallagher huffed.

The other carriage’s coachman hurried over to the broken door and apologized frantically to its occupants.

“Bartholomew, you sniveling man, is that how you drive a horse-drawn carriage properly?” a booming female voice erupted from the interior. The coachman, Bartholomew, Aoife presumed, retreated and held the door wide open.

Out stepped probably the most well-fit and terrifyingly beautiful woman Aoife had ever seen in her life. This Amazonian woman was dressed in a clean, slightly bejeweled dress with dazzlingly white gloves. All of her yellow-blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun, save for one long lock of hair that hung from her forehead, ending in a slight curl. She stood with her hands on her hips and a stern expression on her face that did nothing to mar her beauty in the slightest. Something about her seemed familiar, but Aoife could not put her finger on it.

The woman glared at the coachman and continued to scold him. Andrew interrupted, trying to apologize and explain the accident. With subtle disgust on her face, the woman ceased her tirade and examined Andrew from head to toe. She then moved her gaze to the other side of the road, where Aoife, Madame Hazel, and Bridget stood, feeling ignored and awkward after having witnessed the woman’s rage.

Turning back to the two coachmen, she dismissed the coachmen and began to cross the road toward them. Andrew and Bartholomew bowed to her back.

The strange woman stopped just in front of Madame Hazel. Before she spoke, she examined each Irishwoman in turn. Her eyes paused for a moment on Aoife, and her eyes showed a muddle of confusion and somewhat recognition. Aoife returned the look. _I know this woman. Where have I seen her before?_ she thought.

The woman shook her head slightly and turned back to Madame Hazel. She broadened her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and said, “I offer my deepest apologies for what has just transpired. I assume no one was injured?”

Madame Gallagher’s eyes widened at the Englishwoman’s formality and beauty. Her mouth opened slightly as she stared into the woman’s harsh yet alluring green eyes. An awkward silence passed and Aoife rolled her eyes and nudged her mother in the waist.

“Oh, dear me! Sorry,” Madame Gallagher blushed with embarrassment. The woman raised an eyebrow.

Madame Gallagher looked back up at the woman—for the Englishwoman was quite taller than her—and shook her head. “We are all quite fine, thank you for your concern. As for the crash, it is quite alright, Lady…?”

“Marchioness Midford,” the woman said with pride.

 _Midford. Midford. Where have I heard that name?_ Aoife thought, _I know that name!_

“Oh, _Marchioness_ Midford,” Madame Gallagher curtsied slightly and motioned for Bridget and Aoife to do the same. Marchioness Midford nodded her head in return.

“Marchioness Midford, there is no trouble at all. My arm is bruised slightly, but no harm done. Your party is uninjured, as well, I hope?”

“Indeed. Again, I apologize on behalf of my coachman. Good drivers seem hard to come by these days,” she shot a steely glance over her shoulder at the two cowering men.

“Ah, I apologize, as well,” Madame Gallagher agreed quickly, “Such impropriety…”

Aoife felt sorry for the coachmen. They were probably going to lose their jobs after this. She stepped forward and said, “Forgive me, Marchioness, but I don’t believe it is entirely their fault.”

 _“Aoife,”_ Madame Gallagher hissed tensely, grabbing Aoife’s arm. Aoife shook her arm out of her mother’s grasp.

 “That crossing,” she motioned just up the road to the intersection where the crash took place, “has a blind turn. See? The trees there block anyone’s sight. Neither coachman could have seen the other before it was too late.”

Madame Gallagher glanced back and forth nervously between her daughter and the Englishwoman. Marchioness Midford stared down at Aoife, then nodded her head slowly, “Yes, I suppose so. Forgive me,”

She shifted on her feet to fully face Aoife, “Have we met before?”

Aoife opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by a call from the Marchioness’s carriage.

“Mother? Is everything alright? Are we leaving soon?” A girl’s head with curly, blonde pigtails and a similar cowlick to the Marchioness’s popped out the door of the carriage. She seemed to be about Aoife’s age, albeit a smidge younger. With a similar appearance to her mother, the young lady blinked and squinted in the sun. She waved to her mother. “Come on, we are late already! They are expecting us—”

She then noticed the group her mother was standing with. Her hand, still held high in a wave, faltered, and her head cocked to the side. She seemed to be staring straight at Aoife. Aoife stared back. After a moment, her eyes widened in realization.

 _Now I remember!_ Aoife thought with a wide grin.

“Lizzy?” Aoife started to cross the road, “Elizabeth Midford, is that you?” She recognized this noble girl from a long time ago. Back when her father was still alive; when he would take trips to England on business. There was one time—only once—when he decided to bring Aoife. It was the best trip of her life. It was also the last outing she had ever taken with him.

“Oh my goodness… Aoife Gallagher?!” Elizabeth jumped out of the carriage, exposing her usual beautiful dress adorned with several accenting baubles and ribbons. She and Aoife ran to each other. They hugged, laughing and greeting each other over and over.

They pulled apart and Lizzy said with a brilliant smile, “I would recognize that orange hair _anywhere!”_

Aoife laughed and replied, “You are not that difficult to notice, yourself, Lizzy.”

Over on the side of the road, Marchioness Midford snapped her fingers, calling the girls’ attention.

“Aha!” she said triumphantly, then turned to address Madame Gallagher, who looked confused, “Now I remember you, Hazel Gallagher. You would probably remember me better by my first name, Frances.”

Madame Gallagher’s brow furrowed. She looked at the giggling girls in the road, then at the ostentatious Englishwoman before her. “Sorry, but I’m not entirely sure…”

“Oh, dear. On second thought, you probably would not remember me; we’ve only met once at one of Elizabeth’s fencing matches.”

Now it was Aoife’s turn to snap her fingers. “I remember! That was the first day we met, Lizzy.” The two girls made their way over to their mothers. Aoife’s smile became a smirk. “Ah. That was the day I challenged you. What was the outcome of that match again…?”

Lizzy poked Aoife in the middle of her forehead. “Hush. I don’t like to talk about that,” she let out a huff and turned away, “It was my first and _only_ match to ever end in a draw. And I _still_ think you cheated.”

Aoife made a _tsk tsk tsk_ noise with her teeth and shook her head. Lizzy hit her with her fan.

Madame Gallagher was beginning to remember. Her late husband had had business with the Marquis, Alexis Midford. They had arranged to meet at the fencing school, where the Midford family usually spent most of their time. The two girls had met and, Aoife having learned a few moves in swordplay from playing with her father, decided to face off, just for fun.

Somehow, the match had ended in a draw. Everyone was astonished. Despite the outcome, Aoife and Elizabeth were friends—and somewhat enemies—for the rest of their stay in England. At least, that’s what Madame Gallagher had heard, for she had left the next day. She had duties to attend to back in Ireland. Had she known that a raging fire would take her husband’s life only a few months later, she would have stayed, wanting to relish any spare moment she could with her Murrough…

“Mother? Are you alright?”

Madame Gallagher snapped out of her daydreams at her daughter’s call. She suddenly felt ill. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. She blinked and looked up. “Ah, yes dear?”

Everyone was looking at her worriedly.

“You look remarkably pale, Hazel. Are you ill?” the marchioness commented, looking into Madame Gallagher’s blanched face.

Bridget stepped forward in concern and murmured, “Madam, your arm…”

Marchioness Midford snapped her gaze toward Bridget, who stepped back in timidity. She narrowed her eyes at the maid, “What happened to her arm?”

Bridget said quietly, “Er… when the carriage fell on its side, Madam’s arm was pinned underneath me… Madam Marchioness…”

Lizzy gasped. “Oh, dear! It could be sprained! Maybe even broken!”

“Oh, no no… I am quite fine, I assure you,” Madame Gallagher’s voice faltered a little bit. She held a hand to her forehead.

“Mother?” Aoife stood in front of the pale woman and replaced her mother’s hand with her own. “You seem unwell. Perhaps we should go see a doctor…”

“Oh, no no…” her mother repeated, waving her hand away. She turned toward the direction they had been heading in the carriage. “Aoife. We must go meet your new fian…” Her voice faltered again.

Moving toward the road, Madame Gallagher stumbled. The marchioness caught her.

“Mother! Forget that for now! We need to have you examined by a doctor…” Aoife fussed about her mother, holding her hand and patting her cheek.

“That would be the best idea,” Marchioness Midford commented, assisting Madame Gallagher to a standing position, “She seems to be in a state of shock, or something of the like.”

Having been silently in thought for quite some time, Lizzy snapped her fingers and said, “Aha! Aoife, you and your mother could come to the Phantomhive estate.”

Aoife shot her a confused look and gripped her mother around the waist, “The what?”

Lizzy squared her shoulders proudly and declared, “The estate of Earl Ciel Phantomhive, my fiancé. It is not too far from here. That is where we were heading, anyway, before we… met up… with your carriage.”

Aoife looked surprised, then skeptical. She thought her mother should go see a _doctor…_

“Aoife, trust me. You and your mother… and your… maid over there… will be in perfectly capable hands at Ciel’s mansion. The head butler, Sebastian, can do _anything._ He will surely tend to Madame Gallagher! You will see!” Lizzy bounced on the spot, adding, “Then afterward, we can spend all the time in the world together! We can really catch up! I’m dying to know what you have been up to all these years, you wild Irish girl. It will be wonderful!”

Looking to her mother, who smiled weakly and shrugged—as if saying “Why not?”—Aoife smirked and nodded. The next few moments were devoted to convincing Marchioness Midford of the proposal and helping Madame Gallagher to the Midfords’ carriage.

For the moment, the thought of her marriage to Earl Trancy averted itself from Aoife’s mind. She felt… younger. Less obligated. She also begged to the heavens that Earl Trancy was the understanding type.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three down, six to go before I can get back to work on chapter 10.
> 
> dfjasiodfhio
> 
> \--Kiiro


	4. Shambles, Shortcakes & Scotch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with another character introduction.

_If you want praise, die. If you want blame, marry._

_\--Irish Saying_

Alone at his desk, a young man sat with his head resting on his arms, his dark gray hair somewhat covering his mismatched, lightly-shut eyes. With deep, even breaths, he drifted farther and farther away from the real world and its troubles… with the occasional snore.

There was a light knock on the door across the room. After a pause, it swung silently open. In stepped a creature as dark as night with ruby red eyes fixed upon the sleeping adolescent. A devilish smile spread across its pallid face once it saw its prey in a slumber. Moments later, it loomed in front of the desk and leaned toward the young man, red eyes glowing hungrily…

“Your tea, young master.”

Ciel Phantomhive’s eyes fluttered open as a delicate cup of steaming tea was placed an inch from his nose. He straightened abruptly, eyes wide and alert, then coughed and grumbled, “Whatever you think you saw, Sebastian, I was _not_ sleeping.”

The black-clad butler tilted his head to the side and pleasantly smiled down at his master, his raven hair partly veiling his smiling eyes. With a chuckle, he said, “Understood.”

Sebastian Michaelis then proceeded to present the afternoon tea to Ciel, pausing as the young man yawned loudly. The butler pouted, slightly offended at having his presentation disrupted. Putting down the silver tray adorned with teacakes, he walked around to the other side of the desk.

“Is there something wrong, My Lord? Do you feel ill?” Sebastian asked, bending down and feeling his master’s head, as a mother would a child.

Ciel brushed Sebastian’s hand aside and gestured to the papers on his desk with a scowl. The header of the uppermost paper read: Funtom Co. Quarterly Income Report

“Ah,” Sebastian uttered, lifting the paper and examining it, “Bad news again, I assume?”

Earl Phantomhive rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and groaned, “Income is down. Profits are down. Workers are striking. All aspects of my company are failing, Sebastian, and I don’t know why!” Ciel threw up his hands in agitation. “If this continues, I will be forced to sell out. Or worse…” His face paled as he finished in a whisper, “Sell stocks in America…”

Sebastian sighed and returned the paper to its pile. Fixing his stark, white gloves, he returned to the tea cart and placed the silver tray of cakes on Ciel’s desk. “It is true that Great Britain is in a state of financial emergency, My Lord,” his eyes flashed to the young master, “Yet I find it unwise to despair in such drastic notions. You do know who would relish in buying out the company of the esteemed—” (Here, Ciel rolled his eyes and sipped at his tea.) “—Phantomhive family, do you not?”

Ciel’s eyes instantly narrowed. He placed the tea cup back on its saucer, folded his hands, and leaned toward his butler. With a sarcastic smile, he sneered, “I will die before I let my company fall into the hands of that damned monopolizer, Alois Trancy.”

Sebastian smiled and mused, “I am glad to see that you have your fervor back, My Lord.”

“Indeed,” Ciel leaned back in his chair, the fake smile still plastered on his face, “When it comes to dealing with that sick excuse of an earl, Sebastian, fervor is one thing I shall never lose.”

Ciel paused in thought for a minute, then rubbed his chin and said slowly, “That Trancy… he really thinks taking over Funtom Co. will allow him to avoid the terms of our truce…”

“Quite cunning, I must say,” said Sebastian, “It is a shame the terms you agreed upon were not stricter. Had they been such, well, I believe we would have seen much less of young Earl Trancy over the years.”

“I suppose so…” the earl replied carefully, eyeing his butler with growing irritation.

“It has been quite a while since we have had any dealings with Earl Trancy and his sad excuse of a butler, have we not, My Lord?”

Ciel blinked. When _was_ the last time he had seen that blonde devil or heard his fiendish, feminine laughter? “Now that you mention it… it has...”

The teacup clattered to its saucer once more. “Things have been too quiet with him, Sebastian. I’ve not even received a letter to one of his gaudy parties in the longest time. That is not like him…” Ciel folded his hands, leaned his elbows upon his desk, and furrowed his brow. _Not like him at all…_

“He’s up to something,” Ciel concluded after moments of silence.

“Oh?”

“I’m not at all sure what it is, but it is highly unlike Earl Trancy to leave me alone like this.”

“Exactly, young master.”

“And I—” he paused. Sebastian was being way too blunt. “Sebastian?”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“You know something.”

“I know many things,” the butler said in his velvety voice and smiled, bringing a single, gloved finger to his lips, “Many useful, few are not.”

Ciel exhaled slowly. He hated when Sebastian played tricks with him.

“Care to inform your master of his adversary’s doings?”

“I know not as much as you would like to hear, My Lord.”

“I could order you to.”

“Forgive me young master, but the effort would be futile. As far as I know, it will all become clear to you soon.”

“Since when did you become a petty fortune teller?” Ciel countered in annoyance.

“As I said, My Lord, I know many things,” the butler concluded with a wink.

Ciel glared up through his tousled bangs. With steel in his voice, he said, “I believe that will be all, Sebastian.”

With a slight bow and the shadow of a smile, the butler turned to exit with the tea cart. Before he could, he was summoned back by Ciel who absently pointed to a side table in the corner of a room, on which sat a plain, black, eye patch. With silent understanding, Sebastian retrieved the patch and moved to stand behind the young master’s chair.

“Ah, yes. Before I forget,” Sebastian placed the eye patch over Ciel’s right eye, covering the intricate contract mark taking place of the young man’s iris, and tied the two ends at the back of his head. “Lady Elizabeth said she was to visit this afternoon, My Lord. I seem to remember her reminding you. Twice.” After adjusting Ciel’s hair, Sebastian went to stand before the large wooden desk to await his master’s dismissal.

Ciel smirked, is thoughts drifting to his frilly fiancée. “Five times,” he corrected, “She sent two letters, called twice and sent one carrier pigeon.”

Sebastian smiled and shook his head, “She must be eager to begin preparations for your wedding.”

“Oh, really?” Ciel asked sarcastically, “Could have fooled me.”

Before Sebastian could reply, the mantle clock on a nearby bookshelf chimed the half hour. Ciel raised an eyebrow.

“That’s strange. Lizzy was supposed to have been here by now,” he said, a puzzled look on his face, “Where could she be?”

Without warning, the door across the room burst open and the young gardener, Finnian, fell in clumsily, followed by the maid, Maylene, and the cook, Baldroy, all three of them shouting “Master Ciel! Master Ciel!” from their position on the floor. The house steward, Tanaka, and footman, Snake, peered through the doorway behind them.

Sebastian sighed and Ciel held his face in his palm. This was not an unusual occurrence for them, yet the ungainly trio’s antics were highly inconvenient nonetheless.

“Right yourselves, immediately!” Ciel demanded in annoyance, “And be quick. I’m not in a particularly good mood.”

After a bit of squabbling on the floor, the three servants made their way to their feet. Maylene, panting, her large, thick glasses slightly askew, eventually squeaked, “Master Ciel! Lady Elizabeth’s been in a crash with another carriage!” Finnian and Baldroy nodded rapidly, assuring her claim.

Sebastian’s eyes widened. Ciel shot up out of his chair, alarmed.

 _“What?!”_ the earl shouted, “When? Where?!”

Finnian beckoned Ciel and Sebastian to follow them, “Just now! Come quickly!”

They obliged, swiftly exiting the office and turning down the long hallway to the staircase. Ciel felt fear creep up the back of his spine. He could not bare the thought of Elizabeth—his love and dear best friend—being harmed in any way. She could be infuriating at times, and annoyingly smitten with any and everything “cute”, yes, but Lizzy was the one person in this world that made Ciel the closest to “happy” he could ever become. He could not lose that. Not after everything he had already lost…

They dashed into the grand foyer, led by Finnian’s bobbing, blonde head, and were just about to descend the staircase when the double front doors swung open. In walked Marchioness Midford, Lady Elizabeth, and three ladies whom Ciel had never seen before.

Overlooking the strange women ogling his mansion, Ciel placed a hand on his chest and breathed a sigh of relief. He then descended the steps to greet and interrogate his fiancée.

Sebastian sighed, as well. Then his expression turned dangerous as he icily eyed the three servants who had made such a fuss. Catching his gaze, they shrunk and huddled in fear.

“You three could have at least informed us that they were _unharmed…_ ” he said, a vein visibly pulsing on his forehead.

The three stooges wailed several apologies—occasionally shouting that the fault was entirely Finnian’s— and scuttled down the hall, crashing into Tanaka and Snake along the way.

Sebastian held the side of his head and thought, _These three… They will be the death of me…_ The corners of his mouth twitched in a diminutive smirk as he mused, _If that is even possible…_

With the most eloquent presence he could muster, the demon butler Sebastian followed his young master down the stairs, being careful to keep to the shadows.

* * *

 

The Phantomhive mansion was more beautiful than anything Aoife had ever seen. The carriage had pulled into a grand courtyard of marvelous greenery and vibrant summer flowers, behind which stood the majestic, ivy-enthralled mansion itself.

During their journey to this stately manor, both Midford women had assured the Gallagher women that gallivanting to the Phantomhive mansion rather than to a nearby town was the better idea. (The marchioness had scoffed at the “incompetence of the medical physicians these days.”)

Lizzy had boasted of every aspect of the Phantomhive estate: the staff, the grounds, the tapestries, the portraits adorning the halls, the food, the head butler, the fountain, the boisterous staff, the stars at night, the songbirds in the morning, the staircase, the head butler, her fiancé—Earl Phantomhive himself—and the head butler. Oh, how she stressed the stateliness and grandeur of the head butler. His wit, his intelligence, his talent, his versatility, his loyalty. The more Lizzy described him, the more surreal this mystery butler seemed. Even Marchioness Midford commented on his impressive skills.

As the trip had progressed, most of the color had slowly returned to Madame Gallagher’s face. Aoife and Bridget had sighed in relief when she commented brightly on the furnishings of the high-end Midford carriage and on how “improper” they must have been in her own carriage.

“She’s back,” Aoife had said, sending the whole carriage into a chuckling fit.

As the sun began its descent in the sky—for it was well past noon upon their arrival at the mansion—the ladies climbed up the steps toward the two beautifully carved dark wood doors. Before they entered, Aoife heard a call from somewhere in the front yard. Out of a nearby rosebush popped a yellow-blonde head and a waving, garden-gloved hand. Aoife recognized him as Finnian, the Phantomhive gardener, from Lizzy’s detailed description. Lizzy waved back and shouted that they had been in an accident with another carriage and to inform Ciel that they had arrived. Before she could say anything more, Finnian jumped up and ran full speed toward the back of the mansion.

Aoife shot a questioning glance at Lizzy, who shrugged. Marchioness Midford simply shook her head and turned back toward the door.

They waited for a few minutes, assuming that Finnian would immediately allow them a proper entrance. The sun, however, was beating down upon them with a sweltering heat, forcing Lizzy to pass around her decorative and much-adored fan.

Finally, Marchioness Midford relinquished the formalities and, bearing no shame, pushed open the door herself and led the party in.

Aoife and her mother’s jaws dropped. The mansion was even more striking on the inside. Sparkling marble floors covered the whole of the grand front room. The walls were of a creamy, ivory colour, stretching up toward the high, decorative ceiling. On the other side of the room, a single, red-carpeted, grand staircase led up and split into two symmetrical sets of stairs on either side. At the landing where they separated, the wall was completely blank, save a large, light-colored, rectangular imprint. Aoife supposed that a portrait once hung there for quite some time and had been removed.

Before the Irishwomen could explore the room further, several sets of running footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs and someone shouted:

“Lizzy!”

The bubbly girl’s pigtails bounced as she turned toward a young man hurrying down the staircase. She smiled and ran toward him, arms outstretched. “Ciel!”

The young man, whom Aoife assumed was Ciel, smiled and embraced Lizzy.

“Elizabeth, you silly girl. I’m so glad to see you are unharmed!” Near the opened door, Marchioness Midford cleared her throat threateningly.  When the two parted, Ciel examined his fiancée, picking up her arms and inspecting her face, making Lizzy giggle. He even twirled her around once, causing her dresses to spin and lift slightly off of the ground. The marchioness rolled her eyes and exited the front doors, perhaps going to further scold the coachmen.

“What has happened? You have never been late on a visit before,” Ciel held Lizzy’s hands in his and looked at her firmly, an expression of concern clear on his face.

Lizzy shrugged. “Oh, nothing really. Just a little mishap along the way.”

Ciel raised an eyebrow, his expression deadpan as he eyed his fiancée with a look that said “You’re not telling me everything.”

Lizzy puffed out her cheeks and pouted. She said in a small voice, “We may have crashed into another carriage at a hard turn in the road on our way…” Before Ciel could interject, Lizzy was quick to add in, “But we are all completely fine, Ciel!”

Ciel nodded slowly. “So you _did_ get into an accident.” Lizzy looked away. Ciel cupped her face in his hands, turned it slightly side to side, as if assessing for damages, then kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Well, I am just glad to see that you are safe and sound,” said Ciel. Lizzy closed her eyes and smiled, her cheeks blushing.

Aoife stood close to her mother and smiled at the scene. Lizzy looked so happy. Absentmindedly, she hoped, just maybe, that she would end up just as happy with her fiancé-to-be.

 _I really hope so… Helping out is fine and all, but is it really worth the expense of my happiness…?_ Aoife frowned in thought and cursed herself for her indecisiveness.

Quietly in her mind, Aoife prayed that she had made the right choice.

“And who are these ladies, Elizabeth?”

Aoife looked up as the earl faced her and her mother. (Bridget, too, but the shy girl huddled far behind her mistresses, seeming overwhelmed from the magnificent Phantomhive mansion.)

Earl Ciel Phantomhive was around Aoife’s age—a smidge younger, perhaps?—and slightly taller than Lizzy. He was a slim young man, seeming on the verge of emaciation. His short hair, partially covering the right side of his face, was of a teal-grayish hue, reminding Aoife of the distant, foggy hills occupying her homeland. Under his hair, which seemed slightly ruffled— _Has the earl just woken up?_ she could not help thinking _—_ Aoife could just see a black eye patch covering the earl’s right eye. The other eye was a brilliant shade of iridescent blue, as deep and calm as the vast lake where Aoife would fish with her father in her childhood. Earl Phantomhive smiled welcomingly at his unexpected guests, and although it seemed genuine, the earl had an air of weariness about him that kept the smile from reaching his eyes.

“Oh, yes! Ciel,” Lizzy linked her arm in her fiancé’s and approached Aoife and her mother (Bridget, too, but… well… you know…).

“This is Lady Aoife Gallagher and her mother, Madame Hazel Gallagher.” Aoife and her mother curtsied, while the earl bowed in greeting. “Oh, and that is their maid, Bridget,” Lizzy added with a small wave of her hand.

“Head maid…” Bridget murmured, but curtsied nonetheless.

“They were in the carriage we crashed into, Ciel,” Lizzy said excitedly, beaming and hugging Ciel’s arm. Ciel’s visible eye widened. He smiled nervously then, gripping Lizzy’s forearm and, turning her away, excused himself and walked Lizzy a few steps away. He leaned toward her and whispered something.

Aoife could barely hear the earl say, “Lizzy. You brought _strangers_ into _my mansion?”_ as if referring to a couple of stray cats.

Lizzy laughed loudly.

“Oh no, Ciel!” She walked over to Aoife’s side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I know them. Aoife is an old childhood friend from Ireland. We just so happened to run into each other on the road! Spooky, is it not?”

Ciel’s face relaxed. “Well then, it is lovely to meet you. Forgive my haggard appearance; I have been quite busy as of late.”

Aoife shook her head. “Not at all,” she said, understanding the not-so-fairy-tale life of a nobleman, then gazed up at the beauty of the mansion’s foyer. “You have a magnificent estate, Earl Phantomhive.”

Ciel shrugged his shoulders. “It could be better,” he threw a glance over his shoulder and up the grand staircase. Facing Aoife again, he nodded his head and said, “But I thank you, Lady Gallagher.”

“Aoife,” she insisted.

“Lady Aoife,” he replied with a smile. Aoife gave a smirk in return.

Lizzy suddenly popped off the ground where she stood, her eyes wide in realization and her hands, having released Aoife’s waist, aflutter.

“Oh, dear me! I’ve completely forgotten! Madame Gallagher! Your arm! Oh dear, forgive me! Ciel, fetch Sebastian! This is important! An emergency!”

Ciel’s face took on a panicked expression. “What is the matter? Madam,” he addressed Aoife’s mother, “Are you injured?”

Lizzy hastened over to Madame Gallagher, grasped her good arm, and pulled her toward the earl.

Madame Gallagher resisted and shook her head. “Oh no no… I am perfectly alright. It is merely a small sprain.”

“Mother, you were as pale as snow not fifteen minutes ago,” Aoife said incredulously, “I would hardly call that alright.”

“Don’t make such a fuss over me,” Madame Gallagher motioned to the cloth sling on her arm the marchioness had made for her and added, “This is nothing.”

Earl Phantomhive touched Madame Gallagher’s forearm gently and expressed his concern. “Please allow my head butler to tend to you. He may be a mere servant, but I am sure he can do something for you.”

Aoife’s mother opened her mouth, prepared to argue. However, after a second look at her hurt arm, she consented. “If it will keep my daughter’s nerves at ease…” she said with a weak smile at Aoife.

Ciel nodded, made an about-face, and called, “Sebastian.”

Aoife just then noticed a darkly-clad butler with equally dark hair standing at the foot of the stairs. _Sebastian… this must be who Lizzy kept boasting about... Has he been standing there this whole time?_ Aoife thought, slightly mystified.

“Yes, young master?” the butler responded and stepped forward. He had an alluring voice that was deep and warm like the purr of a wildcat. To her surprise, Aoife felt warmth flood her cheeks.

Sensing movement behind her, Aoife turned to see Bridget—yes, _Bridget_ —taking a tentative step forward, eyes round with adoration, and ogling the handsome servant.

Aoife raised an eyebrow. _That’s new,_ she thought.

“Sebastian, this is an order,” Ciel demanded with the prestige he lacked in his appearance. “Tend to Madame Gallagher’s injury and make sure she is comfortable. She is an old friend of Lizzy’s and therefore a friend of mine.”

Sebastian perked his lips in a small but brilliant smile, placed a hand across his chest, bent slightly over at the waist, and answered calmly, “Yes, My Lord.”

“Ah. And take Maylene with you.”

“Of course.”

“Now,” Ciel looked over his shoulder and gave a half smile as Sebastian led Madame Gallagher to another room. “I do not believe they will take long.” He faced Aoife, Lizzy and Bridget fully once more. “Shall we move to the garden for some afternoon tea?”

* * *

 

 “This is most unpleasant,” Claude murmured for about the fourth time as he ducked to avoid a flying vase. It shattered against the wall with a deafening crash. It could not, however, drown out the sound of young Earl Trancy’s rage.

 _“WHERE IS SHE?!”_ he wailed, gripping his head. His perfectly done hair and dapper attire (all Hannah and the triplets’ doing) were now ruffled and disheveled after an hour of waiting graciously for his guest. He paced near the front doors of the foyer, heels cracking against the floor and echoing around the acoustically-inclined room.

“I _knew_ this was a _horrible_ idea!” Alois exhaled and held a hand dramatically over his eyes. The other rested on his hip. “Why does no one _listen_ to me?”

Claude set his glasses farther up on his nose, recalling that His Highness had previously accepted the task with gusto. As far as he could see, his master still had a _long_ way to go in terms of becoming a true gentleman. He had been taught a few basics—listen when a woman is talking, hold out the seat for her as she sits, open the door for her, show her at least a _smidgen_ of respect—yet he lacked a serious will to use them. For example, while practicing holding out a chair for a lady, Alois thought it would be “ _funny”_ to pull the chair out from under Hannah, sending her to land on her rump with an _oomph!_

Claude sighed as he looked at the distressed teenager. There was still much work to be done.

As Alois continued pacing, Claude stepped in his path and stared him down with that signature blank-yet-stern expression of his. “Calm yourself, Your Highness. Lady Gallagher is simply running behind—”

“No, Claude,” Alois whined desperately, stomping his feet like a toddler. “You don’t understand! That wench is not coming and I know it!” With that, he pivoted on his heel and continued pacing.

“Damn Irish,” he muttered. His voice rose, “Damn women! Untrustworthy, the lot of them!”

Hannah just so happened to be walking past a doorway to the foyer and paused mid-step, looking at Alois with concern. Alois saw her staring at him from the corner of his eye—which narrowed at the sight of her—and snapped, “What do you think you’re looking at, you damn bitch?” Hannah scurried away without a word.

Alois sighed and looked out the window at the afternoon sun slowly descending in the sky. _This could be a good thing, right?_ he thought to himself, biting his bottom lip anxiously, _Her not showing up…_

Why should he expect anything from her anyway? Why should he expect anything from anyone anymore? No one cared about him—except Claude. No one loved him—except Claude. Sometimes Alois thought Claude was the only person he could count on. His own personal safety blanket in this fiery world. His other servants—forget it. They were demons. He hated demons. Yes, Claude was a demon, also; Alois knew that very well. Yet there was just something about him that Alois clung to, something that let Alois look past that minor factor.

_What was it?_

Alois took in a shuddering breath and pushed the hair off his forehead. He didn’t care if he looked atrocious or not anymore. Not now. He just wished that, for once, something would go right. The “family company”—that didn’t count. His successes were mainly Claude’s doing. Alois had no say in any of it; he just sat back and watched many of Great Britain’s commercial industries crumble under Trancy Co.—under Claude’s hand. And soon, Claude always would say, Funtom Co. would follow suit.

But this girl, Alois could tell, would ruin everything. She would start the chain reaction to Alois’s demise. If this Irish girl did not marry him, if he could not obtain more power, if he could never finally get his hands on Ciel… then what?

Often—more frequently now than in the past, as a matter of fact—Alois would ask Claude, “What am I really trying to do, Claude? What was my contract made for? I just can’t tell anymore.”

_Get Phantomhive. Get Phantomhive. Get Phantomhive._

Those two words kept ringing in his head ever since Claude first told him what Phantomhive’s damned demon of a butler did…

Alois would _never_ forgive him.

_But…_

“Forget it.”

Claude was stunned to hear genuine hurt in his master’s voice. “Your… Highness…?”

“Call it off, Claude. Send a note to the Queen. I don’t care. This marriage is off.” Alois undid the big, floppy, black bow that always hung around his neck and pulled it off, letting it flutter to the floor. He pulled at the collar of his shirt until the first button popped open. _Since when was it always so stifling in here?_ he thought, beginning to ascend the staircase to his room.

Suddenly, Claude appeared on the step just above the young earl. Alois backed up in surprise. Claude put a hand on his master’s chest and pushed him back down toward the foot of the stairs. Alois stumbled backward, eyes wide in shock and confusion. When Claude stood before him again, the butler grabbed his master by his face, just under his chin, and squeezed rather harshly.

“C-C-Claude?” Alois stuttered in fear, only able to stare up into those two, menacingly golden eyes.

“I believe it is about time that you changed your attitude,” the spidery butler’s calm, cold voice dripped with malice. With a slight sneer, he added, _“Your Highness…”_

Filled with shock, Alois sputtered out indiscriminate sounds, his eyes threatening to spill tears onto Claude’s crisp, white glove. He’d never seen Claude like this; so lethal, so callous. So like a demon.

Starting to feel a numbness in his pinched cheeks, Alois slowly nodded his head. “A-another hour… O-or two…” he stammered quickly. The pressure on his face lessened. Claude’s hand fell away and he straightened up to his full height again.

“Forgive my behavior, Your Highness,” he said dully, adjusting his flyaway, black locks back into their intricate style. “It is just my belief that you take great care in this endeavor.” He turned on the spot and made his way up the staircase. “After all, obtainment of Phantomhive may very well be in your grasp, this time. Is it really my understanding that you will let him simply slip away?” Claude paused on the topmost stair and fixed his eyes on Alois. His eyes flashed and he added, “Even after what happened to Luca?”

Alois felt a cold shiver run down his spine. _That name…_ He felt any and all warmth drain from his face. His limbs felt heavy and numb. He couldn’t move. _Why…_

All he could do was meet eyes with his demon butler, his servant, proudly standing high above him as if their roles had been reversed. Seconds later, Claude disappeared down the upstairs corridor, and Alois was alone.

He collapsed on the stairs, mouth agape, eyes round and empty. Slowly, he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his thin arms around his shins.

“Luca…” he breathed, shutting his eyes tightly and resting his forehead on his knees.

After all these years, he finally remembered why he was doing all this—why getting back at Phantomhive was so important to him. He couldn’t give up now. He had to marry this girl.

Lady Gallagher was his best chance.

Regaining his composure, Alois sat up, exhaled carefully and felt the side of his face. He could still feel Claude’s hand squeezing him like an insignificant bug. All of a sudden, a thought occurred to him. He let out a quiet gasp at his epiphany.

_Am I nothing to him?_

Alois threw a glance up the stairs.

 _There is no way… He is_ my _butler. Mine. I called to him, he came to me. He is_ my _demon. He wants_ my _soul. That is how it is, and it will not be changing any time soon._

He ran a finger over the ruby- and diamond-encrusted ring on his index finger and furrowed his brow in concentration.

_I’ll make sure of it._

* * *

 

“And then what happened, Lizzy?” Aoife smiled in anticipation.

“Oh,” the blonde, young woman burst into a fit of giggles, appropriately covering her mouth with a delicate, white hand. “Aunt Angeli—oh, I mean Madame Red—thought that little, five-year-old Ciel looked _so_ precious in my flouncy pink dress that she insisted he wear it the entire day!”

Both adolescent women burst into robust laughter. Even Marchioness Midford cracked a small smile.

Ciel, on the other hand, frowned and, returning his china teacup to its saucer, therapeutically rubbed his temple with his forefingers. “Lizzy…” He closed his eyes and blushed lightly, clearly humiliated.

“Oh, hush now, Ciel,” She patted Ciel’s hand resting on the table. “From what I remember, you were having a splendid time twirling around my room. Oh, you had the cutest smile on your face!”

Ciel’s face grew redder and he rubbed his head harder. His left eyebrow twitched. “Lizzy…” he warned, giving a strained smile.

Recovering from her bout of mirth, Aoife lifted her charming little cup adorned with pink roses and gold trimming—a clear respect towards Lizzy’s presence—to her lips and allowed her eyes to wander about the attractive garden.

Large, fragrant flowerbeds occupied most of the yard, each surrounded by short, clean-cut, healthy hedge bushes. In the center of the courtyard stood a magnificent fountain, of which the centre statue was a beautiful woman in a flowing dress holding an overflowing basin. The crystal clear water pouring from the basin sparkled in the sunlight, casting flecks of light across the dirt paths leading to the fountain itself, and gurgled as it fell into the large pool below.

Farther on from the fountain, a low stone railing ran along a balcony, below which stretched a large, calm lake. The sun reflected on the water, causing the ripples along its surface to look all the more refined and graceful.

A light breeze rustled through the trees lining the edges of the yard. Petals of late-blooming, flowering trees fell and danced whimsically in their descent to the neatly cut grass below.

Aoife closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, grinning as the mixed scents of the cherry tea in her cup, the plethora of assorted sweets adorning the petite tea table, and the natural scents of the open air mingled in her mind, together bringing back memories of pleasant picnics in the countryside.

“Just a moment!” Lizzy cried brightly, breaking Aoife out of her remembrance, “I believe Aunt Angel—Madame Red had a picture taken of us that day.” Lizzy reached next to her chair and picked up a small bag, muttering, “I must have it somewhere here…”

Ciel’s eyes popped open. His eyes flashed from the purse, to Aoife, and then to Lizzy’s ferociously hopeful face. He grabbed her hand quickly and said, “No, no, Lizzy.”

“B-but Ciel—!”

“No buts,” Ciel interrupted and then added with a sigh, “I’m not even sure I even _want_ to know why you carry that picture around in your purse…”

“Ciel! I want to show Aoife how _cute_ you were when we were little!”

Momentarily twitching at the word “cute,” Lizzy’s ultimate favorite word, Ciel took the bag from her hand and placed it under the table. He quickly kissed her hand, placed it on the table and said pleasantly, “Let’s not display my childhood embarrassments and give Lady Aoife the wrong idea, shall we?”

Lizzy pouted and turned away from her fiancé with a _hmph!_

Aoife just shook her head, and then chuckled to herself upon noticing Marchioness Midford’s scowling face.

“Oh, what a _horrid_ face, Frances!”

Everyone turned toward the boisterous call coming from the back entrance to the mansion. Aoife’s eyes widened when she saw her mother, arm in arm with the butler, Sebastian, and the cook, Baldroy, and waving to the party with an overzealous grin. A red-haired, bespectacled maid in a short, blue maid’s dress—Maylene, Aoife supposed—trailed behind them.

“Mother?” Aoife said blankly, her face the epitome of bewilderment.

“I would take care of that horrid face, Frances, dearie. You never know, it may stick that way!”

With a loud laugh, Madame Gallagher made her way to the table with careful steps.

Ciel frowned at Sebastian, who smiled brilliantly and gave a reassuring nod. Ciel scowled and, after raising his eyebrows at Lizzy and Aoife, rose from his seat to re-greet his guest.

“Madame Gallagher. How splendid to see you feeling… better…” he said uncertainly, holding out his arms to her. “Please, join us.” Despite his suspicions, the earl seemed elated that, with the woman’s arrival, the subject of conversation would surely change. (He hoped…)

“Why thank you, Earl Phantyhive,” Madame Gallagher arrived at the table and gave a wobbly curtsy. “I am feeling much better, thanks to your loverly butler, Sicilian!”

Maylene’s shoulders shook slightly as she let out a short laugh. Aoife just groaned.

 _“Sebastian_ , madam,” the butler corrected politely with a strained smile.

After being assisted into the seat next to her daughter, Madame Gallagher gave him a confused look and then said, “Ah, yes… You, too, dear.”

Aoife’s head sank into her hands. _Why…_ she groaned in her mind, _Why in God’s name is she acting completely bonkers?!_

Ciel gave Sebastian a look and mouthed, “What the hell did you do?”

“Well, Mr. Sebbington,” Madame Gallagher slurred, pleasantly filling a tiny plate with a large amount of tea cakes, “I must say that you have the magic touch. My arm feels several hundred times better!” She threw out her arms as if able to display her improved health in meters. Aoife noticed that her arm was no longer confined to the sling and relaxed a little bit. “I am still not all that sure what you gave me, though…” She scrunched her brow, scrutinizing the pastries on her plate with a detached gaze.

Aoife’s eyes widened further. She looked around the table; from a chuckling Lizzy, to a mortified and disgusted marchioness, then to her uncharacteristically senseless mother, who swayed in her chair and hummed giddily to an unheard tune as the red-haired Maylene shakily poured the fragrant tea into her cup.

For a moment, her eyes sought Bridget (not that she really ever cared where she went) and found her reading all the way by the fountain. _Typical, useless Bridget…_

Aoife overheard the earl whisper, “What, exactly, did you give our guest in terms of treatment, Sebastian?” His tone seethed with growing impatience.

The prestigious air about the butler faltered. He looked away from the earl, noticeably annoyed and discomfited by the result of his tending.

Nevertheless, the butler stood tall and stated before his master, “Scotch, My Lord.”

“Oh, well then that’s—wait, _what?!”_ Ciel stood abruptly, gawking at Sebastian in disbelief.

Aoife blinked and returned slowly, “You… gave my mother… whisky? For a sprained arm?” She tried fitting the pieces together in her mind when a sudden thought popped into her head. “But she’s never had a single drop of alcohol in her life!”

The cook, standing behind Sebastian, holding his hands behind his fair-haired head and puffing on a cigarette, narrowed his eyes in confusion at Madame Gallagher. “Ain’t she Irish, though?”

 _“Bard!”_ Maylene squeaked, nudging him in the arm.

Sebastian ignored the underlings and bowed lowly before the nobles. “My deepest apologies, My Lord, Lady Gallagher, Lady Elizabeth, Marchioness Midford.” He rose, a genuinely contrite expression adorning his pale, handsome face. “Upon your leave to the garden previously, the Madam… shall we say… opened up…”

There was a pause. By this time, Bridget had detected the commotion and lurked behind Aoife, eyes staring with devoted intent at Madame Gallagher—or were they staring at Sebastian?

“It seems that Madame Gallagher was in more pain than she previously let on.”

Aoife glared scoldingly at her mother, who simply smiled absently and bit into another cake.

“And so, in order to soothe her, I, having no intelligence in the medical field—” Aoife noticed Ciel roll his eyes. “—consulted Baldroy, for perhaps he may have some medical prowess based on his combined culinary and military background.”

Bard squared his shoulders proudly, the cigarette balancing precariously on his lips as they spread apart in a toothy grin.

“I was wrong.”

The cigarette fell and hit the ground.

“Baldroy instead suggested his particular brand of scotch whisky.” He threw a threatening glance behind him at the cook, who stared incredulously at the head butler, shocked that he had been ratted out.

“And upon my search for an alternative, Madame Gallagher seemingly received this ‘remedy’ in spite of my evident disapproval.” He finished with another bow. “Forgive me, My Lord, for allowing such a farce to transpire.”

Silence pervaded the garden. All eyes scrutinized Bard with displeasure, who looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Hey, it always works for me.”

This time, it was Ciel’s turn to bury his face in his hands, his elbows resting on either side of his crumb-filled plate on the table. “Baldroy,” he said with a strain in his voice.

Bard, after fumbling a bit, saluted to the young earl. “Yessir?”

“Go…” Still partially-hiding his face with his left hand, he waved the other hand dismissively at his staff member. “Go… do something safe…” His head snapped up, his eye looking momentarily frantic as he added quickly, “Safe and _inflammable.”_

“Inflammable?” Bridget whispered in such a hushed tone that only Aoife heard her, and then moved away from the cook, wanting to create a safe distance. She had to agree with the maid’s incredulity. Brushing a stray, ginger curl behind her ear and slightly shaking her head, Aoife thought, _Strange place, England…_

Bard’s hand lowered from its salute. He looked unsure. “Young Master? You sure ‘bout that? That is kind of—”

_“Bard.”_

“Yes, young master! Right away!” he barked hoarsely and scampered back into the mansion. Sebastian soon followed, shaking his head in dismay.

Ciel pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a long, exasperated sigh. Lizzy patted his shoulder, a consoling yet amused expression on her angelic face. The marchioness simply shook her head as she watched Aoife’s mother scarf down another two teacakes.

Aoife was not sure what to feel. She should be displeased with the Phantomhive staff, yet she felt a smile tug at her lips. There was just something comical about the whole affair, yet she knew she should be at least a smidge irate at her mother’s condition.

Suddenly a hand was placed on top of hers. Aoife looked up to meet the singly visible, melancholic eye of Ciel Phantomhive.

“Forgive my staff, Lady Aoife,” he implored, “They can be utterly incompetent at the best of times…”

From the corner of her eye, Aoife saw Maylene puff out her reddening cheeks in contempt before following her comrades back into the mansion. It took nearly all of Aoife’s restraint to keep from laughing at the flushed, chipmunk-esque face as it flitted away.

Banishing the silly maid from her thoughts, Aoife again focused on the nobleman before her. Close up, Earl Phantomhive was exceedingly handsome, despite the pallor of his skin and the fatigue in his eyes. _It’s a shame,_ she thought, _that such a hectic life has taken such a toll on him. Lizzy really is quite lucky to have such a headstrong fiancé._

With one last look at her incorrigible mother, Aoife gave a half smile and said, “I suppose I could forgive and forget. Let’s just let bygones be bygones, shall we, Earl Phantomhive?”

Ciel looked relieved. _One less thing on his mind,_ Aoife thought, _That is the least I can do for him._

“And I can sympathize with you on your incompetent staff…” she muttered, leaning close to the earl and throwing a dagger-like glance behind her.

Bridget noticed the jeer and flushed, her thin lips pressing together in an unattractive pout.

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were those of rustling trees, tinkling china, and the distant shouts of Finnian prancing about the garden and tending to its elements. Lizzy once complimented Aoife on her dress, but it was a meager attempt at conversation.

Marchioness Midford broke the extended silence with a light sigh after a final sip of her tea. Noticing that her call for attention fell short, she cleared her throat and, directing herself at Aoife rather than her slowly-sobering mother, asked, “So, what exactly has brought you and your mother to England?”

Aoife smiled pleasantly and took a sip of tea before replying. “Oh, we’ve come to meet my future husband for the first…” Her voice faded as she realized what she had just said. Her eyes widened suddenly and she nearly choked on her tea. “Oh my goodness! I’m supposed to be meeting with him right now!”

Lizzy spat tea across the table (to which Madame Gallagher mumbled, “How improper…”) and gleamed at Aoife, her mouth and eyes all in equally-sized, perfect O’s.

“You are getting _married?!”_ she shrieked.

Aoife blushed heavily and glanced around at the others’ surprised faces. “Well, technically yes. It’s been arranged by the Queen in order to bridge a few crumbling gaps between our nations. You see, there are quite a few people in Ireland who are not exactly happy that—”

“Is that so?” Ciel expressed in wonder, rubbing his chin and not really paying attention to the Irish girl. “The Queen? I’m surprised I was not notified of—Lizzy?!”

Ignoring the fact that her fiancé was midsentence, Lizzy had snatched Aoife out of her seat and began to speed off toward a farther region of the garden, never even bothering to place down her teacup. Both Ciel and the marchioness arose from their chairs in astonishment.

“Lizzy! Where are you going?!” Ciel shouted. “Come back here at once!!”

“I’m sorry Ciel! This is lady business!” she returned over her shoulder at the fuming earl, blonde curls bouncing in her beaming face. “Won’t be a moment!”

Padding along the path leading to the fountain, Aoife stared ahead of her in horror.

How could she have forgotten? How could it have slipped her mind that the whole reason she and her mother (and Bridget…) were on this escapade was to meet her husband-to-be? _Earl Trancy must be furious with me!_ she shut her eyes tightly, scolding herself in her mind. _Oh, what a sad excuse of a wife I am already._

What could she have done, though? Was it her fault that they had crashed? That her mother had been injured? That her mother had then consequently become _drunk?_

Aoife bit her lip. That last one could have been avoided…

The big question was: what could she do now?

Lizzy halted on the balcony overhanging the lake and swung Aoife around to face her.

“Tell. Me. Everything.” Lizzy gestured anxiously with her hands for Aoife to comply, the delicate teacup (now empty of its contents) dangling by its handle from her index finger. There was a dangerous sparkle in her eyes that made Aoife shrink back in fear—this girl was hungry for gossip.

“Well…” Aoife began, turning toward the lake and resting her hands on the stone railing, allowing the breeze to blow her hair every which way. “I’m getting married.” She laughed. It sounded so simple and absurd. Like a fairy tale.

Lizzy squealed and motioned for Aoife to spill more juicy news.

“There is really not that much to tell. _I_ don’t even know the details,” she brushed a curl behind her ear, emerald eyes distant. “All I know is: I’m getting married, I’m getting married to an English earl, and I’m getting married before the end of this year.” _Married, married, married,_ she absently thought, _the more I say it, the less real it sounds…_ “Sometime in December, if I remember correctly.”

“Ooh, an earl! I probably know him. Who is he? _Who is he?”_ she literally bounced with excitement for her friend, her voice growing in pitch. Aoife found this amusing, for some reason.

She looked down at her small, partially calloused hands and fiddled with her ring. “For the life of me, I cannot remember his first name. Similar to my own name, it was, actually,” she smirked at the irony. Seconds later she snapped her fingers, “Oh, now I remember. I believe it was something like Alo—”

“Hold on,” Lizzy cut in, a sudden look of realization dawning on her visage. “Did you say you were marrying in December?”

Aoife was caught off guard by the change of subject. “Well, yes. More or less. At least, that is the Queen’s desire for us. I suppose I will have to arrange a more specific date with Earl Tr—”

“Oh, this is wonderful!” the blonde clapped with glee (the teacup shaking dangerously on her finger). “Ciel and I are getting married this November!” Under her breath, she added, “Finally…”

“Really?” Aoife brightened, glad the focus of conversation had shifted.

Lizzy happily held up her left hand, where a dazzling sapphire- and diamond-adorned ring embellished her ring finger. Her smile was equally radiant.

“Congratulations, Lizzy!” Aoife embraced her friend. “I’m so happy for the both of you!”

“Thank you!” They released from their hug and Lizzy smiled ruefully. “If only Ciel fully shared in that sentiment…”

Aoife frowned, confused. “Ciel is not happy?”

“Oh no!” Lizzy said quickly, shaking her head and holding onto Aoife’s hands. “He’s thrilled. It’s just…” She looked back to the table where her fiancé sat. “Lately, Ciel’s been consumed in his work. Funtom Co. this, Funtom Co. that. Economy this, political that.” She sighed. “He’s drained…”

For a moment, Lizzy looked much older, as if the troubles of a nobleman had plagued her, as well. She looked Aoife in the eye and said, “I honestly cannot remember the last time I truly saw him give that cute little smile, like when we were children. So, I’m hoping that when we finally get married,” she shrugged, “Ciel will take at least part of his mind off of his business for me.”

Aoife nodded reassuringly. “I hope all goes well for you two.”

Lizzy gave a soft smile in return.

Both ladies stared off into the lake, watching leaves dance and sway in the ripples they form. Aoife breathed in deeply, imagining what her own fiancé would be like. Would he be weary and world-worn like young Ciel Phantomhive?

“What is it like, Lizzy?”

“Hm?” Lizzy turned, acknowledging her Irish friend.

“What is it like to have someone like Ciel?” Aoife asked thoughtfully, “Someone who loves you like that?”

Lizzy sighed with content. “It’s divine. Like a constant comfort that there is someone out there who needs you as much as you need him,” she chuckled lightly, “Someone you can protect who also can act as your own safety blanket.”

“It sounds wonderful…” Aoife gazed off in wonder. _Maybe this whole marriage thing will not be so bad, after all…_

Lizzy suddenly whacked Aoife on the shoulder, breaking her from her trance rather violently. “You little rascal, you never told me his name!”

“I’ve been trying to this whole time!” Aoife laughed, rubbing her stinging shoulder.

“Fine, fine, fine. Now, go on. Out with it,” Lizzy prodded, “If I know him, I will tell you all I know about him, from head to toe to wallet.”

“Alright, alright. Now don’t you interrupt me again,” Aoife dabbled around with her fingers, and then looked up at Lizzy and said, “Earl Alois Trancy?”

There was a loud, unforgiving crash as Lizzy’s teacup fell to the pavement. Aoife looked at the delicate, fragmented shards of china in shock and bafflement. “Lizzy?” she gasped.

Lizzy remained still—eyes slightly wide, a falsetto smile plastering her lips.

“I’m sorry… I believe I heard you wrong,” she breathed with an airy laugh.

“No…” Aoife said carefully, clutching Lizzy’s arms in concern. “Earl Trancy. That’s who I am to wed, Lizzy.”

Lizzy gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh. She did not meet Aoife’s eyes. Aoife grew worried, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling and a cold sweat breaking along her back.

She asked carefully, “Lizzy, do you know him?”

“Oh, I know him, alright,” she replied rather harshly, uncharacteristic for the dainty lady. “I know that man very well.”

Aoife shook with excitement. “Oh, what is he like?” For the moment her feelings were a muddle of elation, fear, anxiety and exhilaration. “Tell me, Lizzy!” she implored.

“Earl Trancy…” Lizzy looked off over the water, not particularly focusing on anything. She frowned, her face seemingly concentrated on something Aoife could not comprehend. “He…”

She visibly paled, much similar to how Aoife’s mother had. Aoife shook Lizzy’s shoulder.

“Elizabeth?” she called, “Elizabeth, what’s wrong?”

Lizzy seemed to snap out of her reverie. She blinked rapidly and flashed a heavenly smile.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m… happy for you.” The smile faded into a serious look of concern. “Just promise me one thing, Aoife,” Lizzy clasped Aoife’s hands and looked her in the eye, “Be careful.”

Confusion and suspicion emerged on Aoife’s freckly face. _Careful of what…?_ she thought, _Lizzy must be joking… I’m sure Earl Trancy can’t be all that bad…_

Such thoughts were shot down once she saw Lizzy’s intensely pleading green eyes. That was another thing that brought the two girls together in their friendship: their matching green eyes. Nodding, Aoife said, “I will, Lizzy.”

Lizzy visibly relaxed, comforted by her vow. “Well then,” her voice had lost its vivacity, its cheerfulness. It was replaced by a detached amiability that gave Aoife a terrible knot in her stomach. “Shall we rejoin our party?”

“What about the teacup?” Aoife said sadly for the splintered cup.

Lizzy waved a hand absently. “Finnian will find it eventually…”

Together, the two slowly strolled in the direction of the quaint little table.

Aoife felt a storm coming; there was something about how Lizzy had reacted to Earl Trancy’s name that made Aoife rue their decision of coming to the Phantomhive mansion in the first place.

“Ah, Aoife…” There was a guilty tone in Lizzy’s voice that gave Aoife an instant feeling of dread.

“Yes, Lizzy?”

“One more thing…”

“What?” Aoife asked sarcastically, “You’ve realized you have that little picture of Ciel hidden in your corset?”

Lizzy laughed, reassuring Aoife that her giddy English friend was still buried underneath that blanket of burden.

A smile still lingering on her face, Lizzy said, “Please do not tell Ciel…”

Aoife stopped, her brow furrowed. “But, why not?”

“Well,” Lizzy, forced to stop also, looked at the ground between her shoes, “Let me inform him myself, alright?”

Aoife remained silent, staring at Lizzy intently.

“You see,” she said as they regained their pace, “Ciel and Alois Trancy… do not have a pleasant history. Business-wise or social.”

“Oh?” Aoife could not help but smirk. She tried to imagine the type of person who could set young Ciel on edge. Remembering that it was this type of person whom she would be marrying, she shoved it from her mind.

“Oh, indeed,” Lizzy rolled her eyes. “You really do not want them to be in the same room together…”

“I see…” Aoife muttered, adding after some thought, “We will just have to change that, won’t we?”

A hopeful smirk flashed for a moment on Lizzy’s face. Instantly it changed to her standard cheerful grin as the pair reached the table.

As they sat, the marchioness immediately gave a look of displeasure to her daughter. It seemed that she, having been left alone with the bumbling Irishwoman and the—in her opinion—equally bumbling earl, would have a few stern things to say to Lizzy later on.

“Pleasant walk, ladies?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow as his fiancée.

“Quite,” Lizzy stated too-calmly. Ciel narrowed his eyes, throwing Aoife a questioning glance. Remembering their promise, Aoife simply shrugged at the earl and turned to tend to her mother’s growing pile of teacakes.

“Well, Lady Aoife,” Ciel added two cubes of sugar to his new cup of tea and continued, “I believe you were just about to tell us to whom you are to be marri _EEAUGH!_ ”

Ciel let out a piercing shriek, which was preceded by a dull _thunk_ sounding from under the table. He immediately clutched his shin and looked frantically at his fiancée, who simply sipped at her tea as if nothing had transpired.

“Elizabeth?! What in God’s name… Why on earth…” he let out a low string of profanities, making sure not to let anyone hear _exactly_ what he was saying (especially not the marchioness).  

Lizzy leaned close to him and mumbled through her smiling teeth, “I will tell you later, darling.”

“What the hell did you kick me for, Elizabeth?” he hissed in return.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Ciel, now hush and ask more suitable questions.”

After a few more hissed phrases back and forth, Ciel simply glared at his fiancée, silent.

The scene between Ciel and Lizzy was nigh on comical. Aoife could barely keep herself from bursting out in laughter when she heard her mother start to say, “Oh, Lord Phantomhole, if you _must_ know, my daughter is to be married to the young Earl Tra—”

Of course, Madame Gallagher was suddenly interrupted as her own cup of tea was swiftly knocked over onto her lap. She yelped in surprise and stood, taking in her soiled dress.

“Oops,” Aoife said innocently, holding a napkin out for her mother. She rejoiced in her mind, thinking, _I never did like that dress…_

Marchioness Midford looked upon the travesty of an afternoon tea party. From her daughter’s pleasant smile, to Ciel’s seething and tearful glare, to Aoife’s shaking form as she kept herself from laughter, to Madame Gallagher’s drunken attempts at cleaning her dress mixed with her constant repetition of “How improper!”

Bringing her own teacup up to her lips, the marchioness sighed, raising her eyes to the heavens, and felt in her heart that these next few months were sure to be quite extraordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five to go, oh god this is taking too long for me.
> 
> \--Kiiro


	5. A Night at the Phantomhives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where I question past-me's sanity just a bit.

_Constant company wears out its welcome._

_\--Irish Saying_

Late afternoon soon became tinged with the prospect of a clear twilit night. The pure blue sky, dotted occasionally with tufts of cotton, melted into a rustic myriad of colors. Yellows, oranges, pinks and violets blended together in a wondrous palette. Against the late summer sky, the landscape was reduced to a mere silhouette. A light breeze ruffled clusters of leafy frills on their perches.

Overall, the approaching evening was one of peaceful tranquility.

One by one, the nocturnal residents of the Phantomhive estate emerged from their respective abodes, preparing for their nightly ventures. Upon the branch of one sturdy oak tree, a stout brown owl untucked his head from his breast and ruffled his feathers, widening his beak in a soundless yawn. He hopped further out onto the branch, turned his head, stretched his tawny wings in preparation for his search for a snack...

_“What?!”_

…and tumbled to the ground in a mess of flying feathers and indignant screeches from the force of a young earl’s bellow.

“Ciel, darling, shush!” Lady Elizabeth hissed, fluttering her hands in an attempt to calm her rampaging fiancé. With a furtive glance to the open office door, she added, “Someone might overhear…”

“Why that no good, thieving, lying _bastard!”_ Earl Phantomhive paced the dimly-lit room, eyes wild, face bloodred with fury, and shoulders hunched, resembling those of a ravenous feline.

Lizzy sighed. Moments before he had been the calmest of gentlemen, pleasantly smiling as his fiancée had entered the room to deliver the verdict. Without pause for formalities, the name had poured out of poor Lizzy’s mouth before she had even realized it.

“Alois _bloody_ Trancy?! That damned prat!”

Perhaps she should have broken the news to the earl in a somewhat gentler fashion.

Elizabeth’s face reddened as Ciel let loose another string of insults against the flamboyant earl. _Such language,_ she thought, _It is worse than I thought._

In his rage, Ciel tossed a pile of papers off of his desk, sending them fluttering to his feet.

“So _this_ is his plan, eh? What nonsense!” he nearly laughed, trampling over the papers that littered the floor. Lizzy winced as the frail parchment crackled and ripped under his shoes.

“Marriage?” Ciel threw his head back in a laugh before continuing, “Does he really believe a damned wedding—” Here, Elizabeth shot up a surprised glance, which quickly melted into a frown. “—will give him any blooming good grounds to target my company?” He stopped behind his desk and planted his hands on its wooden surface. “Rubbish,” he whispered to himself.

Lizzy clenched her fists in momentary frustration. “Business. Always about business,” she muttered, unheard by the distressed earl.

With a stern face, Elizabeth shut the office door quietly and stood before Ciel’s desk. She bent down to look him in his single, downcast eye.

“Ciel, you have to settle down. You are just paranoid, is all. And frankly, it is not at all cute…”

“Lizzy…” The earl pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is ridiculous, Ciel,” Lizzy whined, “I know of your troubles concerning Earl Alois Trancy—”

“Do _not_ say his name whilst in my manor, Elizabeth,” he seethed in a serious voice, his blazing blue eye suddenly locked with his fiancée’s, “I will not have it.” The force of his stare made Lizzy falter for a moment.

“Please, Ciel,” she urged, placing her hand over his, “I know you and he have had a bad history together—though I am still not sure what he’s done that has you this riled—but you cannot keep denying the big picture…”

Earl Phantomhive gave Elizabeth a deadpan stare. He lowered himself into his office chair and carefully slid his hand out from under hers.

“’Big picture’?” he asked, incredulous to her sudden, all-knowing approach. “How in blazes can you even begin to understand the intentions of this situation, Lizzy?” his voice had slipped from its serious tone and had taken on a desperate air, “For God’s sake, I am not even sure _I_ am able to… to want to attempt to… to try to… comprehend… Trancy… the… Queen…” Ciel’s hands slid up his face and combed his hair back from his forehead, revealing the stark patch over his eye. He let out a pained groan.

Elizabeth understood the young earl’s frustration; what exactly could Earl Trancy gain from marrying Aoife Gallagher? What did Queen Victoria have in mind? More importantly, what did Earl Trancy himself have in mind?

Lizzy bit her bottom lip and examined her fiancé’s volatile state. Further efforts to calm Ciel would be in vain, she knew that. _I have to try, though… Ciel and Aoife have become good friends. I cannot let Alois Trancy tear that apart…_ Her eyes widened. She had her hook. _For Aoife._

“Oh, come now, Ciel,” Lizzy said gently. She moved to kneel beside the earl’s chair, her hands resting on its arm. “The Queen must have intentions of great importance for their union.”

Ciel remained silent.

 _Let me try again,_ Lizzy thought with a pout. “Perhaps…it would be easier to just ask Aoife, hm? To see her opinion on the engagement?”

The earl’s hands slammed down on the desk, startling his fiancée. He turned in his chair and looked her in the eye, his face accusatory yet calm. “How can you simply sit by and let that innocent girl become involved in all of this?”

“All of…?” Elizabeth blinked and recoiled from Ciel’s side. “I cannot just tell her to go back home! To forget about the Queen and the engagement and… and…” She felt her hands shake slightly and clenched them at her sides.

The silence between them lengthened as Ciel awaited the young lady’s full answer. Sensing none, he rested an elbow on the desk once more and leaned his cheek against his palm. After a moment he shrugged and shifted what papers were left on his desk. “Well, it seems I will have to do something about it then...” he droned, “I suppose I could have Sebastian……”

Elizabeth paled. She knew that whatever _something_ the Queen’s Watchdog did—whatever vile action she, as his wife-to-be, was forced to overlook—it was never pleasant. _But he would never…_

“You are not suggesting…” she tread carefully as Ciel devoted his full attention to the ever-shifting paperwork, “…going against the Queen’s wishes?”

“Of course not, Lizzy,” Ciel gave an eerie smile, sending a shiver down Elizabeth’s spine, “Not ‘going against’ per say… More like…” he looked up in thought, “‘working around,’ perhaps?”

Lizzy’s face reddened. She could not let him. Not this time.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon, Lizzy?”

“I said no, Ciel.”

“No, what?”

“I will not let you destroy this engagement.”

Ciel looked up at his fiancée—her pouting face, folded arms, and tapping foot—in complete and utter bafflement. “Why, pray tell?”

“Because…” Her eyes searched the ground for a good reason before replying, “Because Aoife is my friend—and your friend, as well—and there are most definitely reasons why this marriage needs to happen!”

Earl Phantomhive blinked. A smile tugged at his lips. “You sure are resolute about all of this.”

“I most certainly am.”

“Stubborn as a mule.”

“You say stubborn, I say righteous.”

Ciel raised his eyebrows. “And what do you suppose are these reasons as to why my new friend should marry my rival?”

“Well… I…” Lizzy shut her mouth then. Even she could not answer that.

“Lady Aoife knows, you say?”

Lizzy nodded. She thought so, at least.

Ciel exhaled. He did not like this. But, above anything else, he had to appease his fiancée. If anything happened to upset Aoife, he knew, he would never hear the end of it. Why, Elizabeth might even call off the wedding…

 _Actually, knowing her, a suitable punishment would be moving the date closer…_ he cringed as church bells clanged in his ears.

“Oh, fine,” Ciel sighed.

Elizabeth brightened. A brilliant smile grew upon her petite face, warming Ciel’s heart. “Really?”

“I will personally harm neither bride nor groom in this situation,” he declared, raising his right hand in validation, “And I will dismiss this as any sort of intricate Trancy-Taking-Down-Funtom-Co. plot.”

Lizzy bounced up and down, clapping her hands and squealing.

“However…”

The bouncing ceased.

“If I notice that Alois is trying anything funny with Lady Aoife…” Ciel took his thumb and drew it across his throat in a swift, deadly motion. Lizzy gulped and nodded.

Ciel sighed once more and peered at the mantle clock. It was nearing seven o’clock. He pursed his lips. _It would be ridiculous to send the Gallagher ladies all the way to the Trancy Manor now…_ A scowl tinged his boyish face. _Especially with Madame Gallagher still in her… state…_

“Tell our Irish guests that they will be staying here for the night.”

Elizabeth’s face became one of confusion and excitement.

“I will not allow those ladies to plunge into the depths of that man’s presence tonight. So, please go inform them, as well as the staff, of their stay. I am sure they will agree to it.”

The bouncing continued once more, accompanied by a chorus of ‘Thank you, Ciel!’s.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Ciel murmured, hiding his smile and pointing off towards the door, “Now, go on. And tell Sebastian to cease his entertaining of our guests for the moment. I have to ask him to write a letter to Trancy explaining this entire affair.” He nearly snickered at the thought of Trancy’s little devilish face twisting in frustration upon reading the note.

In a burst of squeals, Elizabeth pecked a kiss on Ciel’s cheek, said one more ‘Thank you’, and burst out the door, shouting, “Sebastian! Aoife! Everyone! I have the best news!”

Ciel’s façade instantly melted away at her departure. A frown returned to his face, and his head fell onto his folded arms with a _whump_.

“Sebastian,” his muffled voice called.

“You are journeying down quite a delicate road here, young master.”

Ciel lifted his head to witness his butler emerge from the shadowy corner of the room.

“Do not tell me what I obviously know, you,” his eyes narrowed at Sebastian’s smiling face, “You could have told me of this sooner so I would not have had to upset Elizabeth…”

“My apologies, My Lord,” the butler said in a pleasant tone that was far from apologetic, “But was I not correct, though, in saying that all was to become clear soon?”

The earl blankly stared into those two pulsing red eyes. _He is enjoying this,_ Ciel groaned in his mind.

“Just write a letter to Trancy and make sure it is delivered within the hour. I do not want Lady Aoife or Madame Gallagher to feel that nutter’s wrath over something so trivial.”

“Shall I deliver it personally?”

Ciel shook his head. “The truce forbids it, remember? ‘Neither butler nor master is to cross into another’s territory without invitation.’ I do not want war breaking out over a common letter. Send Snake or something…”

Sebastian bowed, “Yes, My Lord.”

Just as the butler had crossed the threshold of the office door, he swiveled and reentered, a puzzled look on his face.

Ciel noticed this. “What is it?”

“My Lord, you lied to Lady Elizabeth.”

The young earl removed an ink well from a desk drawer and took up his quill to fill out a form, never batting an eye as he replied, “I did no such thing.”

“You have no intention of leaving this marriage alone, do you?”

Ciel’s eye glanced up at the dark figure, strangely colored by the fading light of the sun. As his gaze returned to the paper before him, a smirk plagued his lips. “Of course not.”

“My Lord, then how—?”

“I said I would ‘personally harm neither the bride nor the groom,’ did I not? Well, I never _personally_ harm anything, do I? That is what hired help is for. And that is what you are for.”

Sebastian’s expression mirrored his master’s. He had expected this. “And what of Lady Aoife?”

The earl frowned and his quill stopped moving. Sudden memories of that afternoon rushed into his mind. This girl, this Lady Aoife, was a kind being. Rough around the edges, yes, but that was what made her unique. She was unlike the stuffy English women he was used to, and he somehow found that intriguing. Besides, he had never formally had a female friend before other than Elizabeth.

 _Elizabeth…_ Ciel recalled a small tidbit of information that had come up in their conversation. Aoife Gallagher had fought Elizabeth Midford in a fencing match, and the result had been a tie. Above all else, that established a great deal of his respect for the Irishwoman. To be evenly matched with the praised, fencing daughter of the Midford family was quite a formidable accomplishment.

Up until Lizzy’s disclosure of the identity of Aoife’s fiancé, this day had been the first in a while where Ciel was able to sit and enjoy his company in relative leisure. He owed this day to Lady Aoife and her mother’s sudden—and somewhat comical—appearance.

_But…_

She was to marry Earl Alois Trancy. That was the fact that could never change. Not unless someone took action.

 _Lady Aoife is an old friend of Lizzy’s and therefore a friend of mine,_ he remembered saying. These words stung him. If they were friends, what options did he have in this situation? What could he do to help her while also saving himself?

 _These are sure to be some troubling times,_ Ciel reluctantly admitted, _I am going to have to make a choice soon. And I have a feeling it will not be a pleasant one._

Resuming his writing, the earl told Sebastian, “I said I would not hurt her.”

The butler still stood with anticipation.

Ciel urged, “And I meant it, Sebastian. I will not.” He pointed the tip of his quill at the butler. “And you will not, either.”

Sebastian frowned. “Do you realize how difficult that will be, young master?”

 “I said I would not hurt her,” he repeated. The earl smiled menacingly and continued, “But I said nothing about scaring her witless.”

Sebastian nodded his understanding, smirking at his master’s uncanny grin. As he exited the office once again, he could not help but chuckle and think, _The master may have learned a thing or two from his demon, but he is still undoubtedly human._

* * *

 

 

Eyes wide and bright, mouth open in awe, the ginger girl clasped her hands before her and breathed, “Oh, wow…”

Just as beautiful as was the entirety of the Phantomhive mansion, so was the guestroom in which Aoife was to stay. The furnishings were plush and ornate, and—though she was not used to such extravagancies—she found them extremely comforting after her long, bizarre day. With a sigh, Aoife crossed the room and ran a hand along the stitching of the quilted comforter.

“Is the room to your satisfaction, Lady Gallagher?” hummed Sebastian’s voice from the doorway. There was a dull _thunk_ as Aoife’s trunk was lowered to the carpeted floor.

“Of course,” Aoife said with a smile, gazing at her temporary canopy bed and fingering its wooden carvings. “It is lovely, Mr. Michaelis.”

The butler smiled and began to reply, but was interrupted by a dreadful moan from the hallway. Sebastian cringed and tried to hide his annoyance.

Suddenly Madame Hazel Gallagher burst into the room, holding a hand dramatically to her head and letting out a ghostly wail. “Oh, my darling daughter! How my head does ache!” She stumbled farther into the room. “Oh Lord, just do away with me now!”

“Mother…” Aoife took the woman by the arms and led her back to the door. She gave Sebastian an accusatory smirk. “You got her fluthered, you deal with her.”

Sebastian gave a rueful smile and took Madame Gallagher by the arm. He gave a slight bow and said, “As you wish, My Lady. I hope you find your stay pleasant, however brief it may be.” He then turned to the woman at his arm, “Come, Madame. Let me show you to your room. I believe you too shall find it to your predilection.”

His pleasant expression looked strained; Aoife did all she could to keep from grinning like a fool. As the two exited, Aoife heard her mother say, “Oh no, dear. I’ve had far too much already…”

The grin spread across her face. In a burst of mirth, Aoife skipped to the door, closed it discreetly, then spun across her room in a merry jig. _At last! Finally alone!_ she thought with glee.

Quicker than lightening, Aoife’s hand flew up to the top of her head and cast her flower-adorned hat off toward a dresser by the window. She scampered over to the dresser’s mirror and ferociously rubbed at the meager makeup on her face. Minutes passed before she could see her own face, freckled, natural, and unblushed. Her lips parted once more in a wide grin before she scampered to the edge of her bed and collapsed on its soft surface, her hair escaping its intricate mass of tight curls and swelling haphazardly around her.

How wonderful it felt to escape the constrictions of the noble life! All day Aoife had been the perfect lady—at least, she tried to be—but she had nearly exploded from her unexpended energy. After hours upon hours of proper behavior—the walking, the bowing, the pleasantries—it grew tiresome. Some days she merely wanted to run back home—back into the arms of her father—and forget everything.

But she could not.

Aoife closed her eyes and spread her arms across the bed, weaving her fingers between her long, entangled, orange tresses. Absently, she realized how long her hair had grown. She thought that, for a moment, she resembled the sun—with its fiery amber flames spiraling from its center, curling round and round in their endless dance.

Reaching out to her left, Aoife grabbed one of the several pillows piled at the head of the bed and held it to her chest, hugging it tightly.

For a fraction of a moment she pictured her fiancé in her arms, rather than this small sack of goose feathers. Without realizing it, she clutched it tighter. _Soon…_

A knock at the door broke Aoife’s train of thought and she flailed to an upright position, accidentally throwing the pillow to the floor next to her hat and scorning herself for such thoughts. _I’ve yet to meet him, after all…_

“Y-yes?” she called, startled at the hoarseness of her voice.

“Aoife?” said a feminine voice. The door opened and Lizzy peered in, adorned in a frilly, pink nightgown. Behind her, Aoife could see the dark red hair of the maid, Maylene. Lizzy looked uncertain at first, but bounded in after ascertaining that this was indeed her friend’s room. “Oh, good! You are still awake! I had thought that I had woken you.”

“Not at all. I was just…” her voice trailed off as Lizzy scrutinized the hat and pillow on the floor as well as Aoife’s bedraggled appearance. Quickly, Aoife reached around her head and pulled her mass of hair into a loose braid. With a nervous laugh, she asked to what she owed the pleasure of Lady Elizabeth calling upon her.

“Oh, nothing really…” Lizzy fiddled with her fingers and eyed the maid standing attentively at the door, making sure to catch Aoife’s eye as she did so. “Just came to say good night…”

The young Irishwoman looked from Lizzy to Maylene, then back to Lizzy. She then eyed the maid and cleared her throat, startling the fidgety woman. “Maylene, was it? Was there something…?"

Maylene pushed her glasses farther up on her small nose and squeaked, “I was just waiting to help you ready yourself for bed, My Lady.”

Aoife blinked. “Oh. Well, um… I believe I can manage on my own.” Maylene seemed taken aback by the response. Portraying that she meant no offense, Aoife quickly added, “But thank you for offering, Maylene.”

The maid bowed, then scuttled from the room, leaving the two young girls alone.

With a flurry of bouncing blonde, Lizzy plopped herself next to Aoife on the bed. The two looked at each other for a few seconds before Elizabeth asked, “So, are you nervous?”

Aoife looked down at her folded hands and twisted her ring. She was not sure how to answer. “Of course I am nervous!” she wanted to shout. But she had to keep her head high. Ignoring the butterflies whirling in her stomach, Aoife gave a tense smile and shook her head.

“You cannot fool me, Aoife Gallagher,” Lizzy said with an evil grin.

Aoife rolled her eyes. “Alright, fine. I am a wee bit anxious… but I am meeting the man I am going to spend the rest of my life with! How can I not be on edge about something like that?!”

She realized that her voice had considerably risen and quickly covered her mouth, shooting Lizzy an apologetic look. Lizzy just laughed.

“Oh, it is alright, Aoife.” She consoled her friend by patting her slight shoulder. “Everything is going to be just…” Lizzy hesitated, quickly shooting a gaze to her left for half a moment before finishing, “…fine.”

Aoife narrowed her eyes and dropped Lizzy’s hands. With a long, drawn-out sigh, she crossed the room to the tall windows and opened the latch.

As a cool breeze blew in, Aoife breathed deeply and closed her eyes. She heard Lizzy approach the window and join her.

“The night is beautiful,” Lizzy said distantly, perhaps trying to stir up a conversation.

“Lizzy.” Aoife sighed again and opened her eyes. “What did Ciel say?”

From the corner of her eye Aoife saw the girl’s head dip. Elizabeth turned her engagement ring around her finger once. Twice. Three times. “He did not take it well,” she finally answered.

Aoife’s heart sank. “He did not approve?” Not that it mattered if Earl Phantomhive approved or not. Either way Aoife still had to obey the wishes of the Queen. But he seemed to be a good man, and Aoife did not want to be in his ill favor.

“No,” she replied simply. Lizzy turned her head toward her friend, her eyes surprisingly bright. “But a fair bit of convincing proved otherwise.”

A grin spread across the freckled girl’s cheeks. She tilted her head in confusion. “But… how? What…?”

“You see, at first he was very cross—”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“We could hear him. Not distinctly; we just heard an occasional exclamation.”

Lizzy’s face grew red with embarrassment. “I am so sorry…”

Aoife shook her head, indicating that an apology was not needed.

There was a pause as the two girls surveyed the night. Its swirling mix of navy blues and violets was speckled with various-sized points of light. Aoife simply adored looking at the stars. Wherever she went—be it Northern Ireland or the English countryside—they would always stay the same. Briefly she recalled sitting atop a hill at night with her father, listening intently as he taught her the constellations.

“So…” Lizzy began, recapturing Aoife’s attention. The blonde’s eyes kept shifting from her twisting hands to Aoife’s face. “What exactly is the reason behind your engagement?”

Aoife furrowed her brow. “I believe Queen Victoria said that my marriage to Earl Trancy would settle disputes between Ireland and England.”

“Oh, well that is a relief,” Lizzy let out a light laugh and pressed a hand to her chest.

Aoife’s eyes widened. She crooked her head to face Lizzy and inquired, “’Relief’? Lizzy, what do you mean ‘relief’?”

Elizabeth realized what she had said and shut her mouth. Aoife drummed her fingertips on the windowsill, waiting for an answer.

“Well… I… Ciel…”

“What about Ciel?” Aoife demanded, trying to contain her fiery temper. “Exactly _what_ is wrong with everyone in this mansion? _Why_ is everyone so concerned about my engagement with Alois Trancy?”

Lizzy tried to cut in, “It is as I said, Aoife. Alois and Ciel are not—”

“Is Ciel the one who must marry to help save his country?” Aoife felt sudden tears burn her eyes and blinked them away. “This entire affair is between Alois Trancy and me, Elizabeth. Actually, it is not about us at all! This has to do with Great Britain and its commonwealth in Ireland. The earl and I are merely tools…” One tear streamed down her cheek. She turned to hide it and quickly wiped it away.

Elizabeth seemed stunned, staring wide-eyed at Aoife. “Aoife…” she hesitated, reaching out a hand to touch her friend’s shoulder, “Please, I—”

She was interrupted by another knock on the door, followed by a low moan and Madame Gallagher’s voice saying, “Oh the impropriety! Aoife, dearie! Oh how I—“

“MOTHER,” Aoife shouted abruptly, making Lizzy jump. Angered by her mother’s irksome state and horrendous timing, the fired-up Irish girl stomped toward the door, fuming. “How old to you think _you_ are, _Madame?_ Why, you are clearly setting a fine example for your daughter! She is soon to become a _wife,_ after all!” She reached the door and continued, “The least you could do instead of casting about drunken words like an old sailor is getting some rest to clear your clouded head! I myself am tired and wish to not be bothered by a hypocritical Irishwoman with no sense of the propriety she constantly boasts about!”

There was silence. Aoife thought that maybe she had gone and felt exuberantly better at having spoken her mind. She was just turning around to rejoin a flabbergasted Lizzy when a male voice spoke out, “Lady Aoife?”

Aoife felt her heart sink down to her feet. She whirled back to the door and opened it carefully, trying not to seem any more like an enraged brute.

In the dim hallway, Ciel Phantomhive stood with Madame Gallagher’s arm clutching his own. His blue eye sparkled from the light of the candlestick he held in his other hand, and a worried look presented itself upon his face. Aoife felt her neck burn as she noticed the hint of a smirk at his lips.

“Earl Ph-Phantomhive…” she gasped, “Oh my goodness. My God. Oh my.” She dipped her head in a bow and said, “Please forgive my outburst… It was not meant for… Oh my…” Her face flared up in mortification.

“Pish posh, dearie,” Aoife’s mother crooned, her voice filled with fatigue as she patted her daughter’s lowered head, “A little catnap shall put me right as rain!”

Aoife shot her mother a scowl. Ciel let out a small laugh.

“I suppose I could forgive and forget,” he said, “Shall we let bygones be bygones once more, Lady Aoife?”

Aoife raised her head again and nodded with a weak smile. Beside her, Lizzy popped through the door and beamed.

“Why, hello there, Ciel!” she bubbled in her singsong voice. “Come to say good night, have you?”

“Not precisely.” Ciel eyed the Irishwoman next to him. “I was in my office when I heard Madame Gallagher wandering about in the halls.” His eye closed as he let out a chuckle. “She seemed to be singing an old drinking song of some sorts.”

Lizzy nudged Aoife in the ribs. She whispered, “I thought you said your mother has never drunken a drop of alcohol in her life?”

“True. But never did I say that she has never attended an Irish party before,” she replied with a wink, “How do you think she met my father?”

Lizzy giggled. Ciel cleared his throat gently and resumed, “At any rate, I was escorting the madam back to her guest room—I am about to retire, myself, after all—when I heard you two talking. I thought that I would perhaps say a final good night, as well.”

“Ah.” Aoife rocked on her heels for a moment, avoiding the earl’s piercing blue eye. When she did steal a glance at his face, however, she noticed that he too was avoiding her gaze.

 _He is distancing himself from me already…_ she thought with an internal sigh, _I must find a way to settle Ciel’s differences with Earl Trancy… Staying on good terms with Ciel should prove simple if I am careful with my fiancé… Oh, I hope this turns out well._

“Well,” Lizzy broke the silence with a nervous laugh, “We should let Aoife rest, now, Ciel. She has a very important day tomorrow.” She wedged out from the doorway to stand by her fiancé and unhooked Madame Gallagher’s arm from his. To the earl, she said, “I will escort Madame Hazel to her room on your behalf. Aoife,” she directed at the Irish girl, pointing a finger at her face, “You go straight to bed. Remember, you leave tomorrow at ten o’clock sharp.”

“Mmyes, dear. Have a lovely snoozle,” Madame Gallagher slurred, clutching Lizzy’s arm and patting her daughter’s cheek, “I want you looking right and proper for Earl Trancy.”

Aoife saw Ciel twitch at the sound of the earl’s name and made a note in her mind to tell her mother of Earl Phantomhive’s plight with her husband-to-be. Trying to make the situation a little less awkward, Aoife said, “Thank you, Lizzy, Mother. I will try to rest well tonight. First impressions are everything, yes?” She directed her smile at Ciel. “I daresay I should try to make a good one for him, hm?”

Ciel gave a hint of a smile; however, it did not reach his eyes, just as it had not done that afternoon.

“You are tired, Earl Phantomhive,” Aoife said in an undertone as Lizzy sauntered down the hall with Madame Gallagher. “Please do not worry for my sake. By no means will I let Alois Trancy get the better of me. I am not a weak girl.”

Their eyes met, Aoife’s were fierce and determined while Ciel’s had grown dull and tired.

“I do not believe that you are, Lady Aoife,” he replied, staring into the fire of the candlestick, “But in any case, I implore that you be careful while residing in Trancy Manor.”

Aoife paused, eyeing the same lick of flame as the earl, and nodded.

“I will,” she vowed, offering the same promise she had given to Elizabeth. _Now I have to be extra cautious…_ she thought.

After a moment, Earl Phantomhive sighed, bowed, said “Good night, Lady Aoife,” and followed his fiancée down the moonlit corridor. Aoife watched his departure until the candle’s tongue of flame winked out of sight in the shadows.

* * *

 

It was dark. And quiet. That was all Alois could acknowledge at this point.

He had his eyes shut—hence the darkness—and had his head propped up against the slippery, leather backing of his office chair. The hype of his circumstances had died down, and he had basically given up.

The old clock one floor below him tolled the hour. Refusing to open his eyes and disrupt his pained solitude, Alois counted the chimes as they sounded.

“Five,” he murmured, “Six. Seven. Eight…”

Silence.

Alois let loose a groan and leaned forward in his chair until his forehead made contact with the mahogany surface of his desk. The cold wood chilled his skin and sent a shiver down his spine.

“She is not coming,” he accepted, allowing his eyes to flutter open and stare at the running grains of the wood.

This plan—it was supposed to be completely emotionless, yes? There should have been no suffering on his part, right?

“Then _why_ do I feel so damn _miserable?”_ Alois let out in a discontented breath, rolling his head to the side on his desk. The direction he now faced, he was forced to stare at the partly unfolded letter from _Her Royal Highness,_ Queen Victoria. A look of disgust crossed the young man’s boyish features. Claude had told him to discuss the details of the Queen’s request with Lady Gallagher upon her arrival.

He would rather see the blasted piece of _royal parchment_ burn. That would give _Her Majesty_ what-for.

A rare grin parted his lips. _Not a bad idea, actually,_ he thought, picturing the charring, papery remains burning in the downstairs fireplace.

The earl was just lazily reaching for the letter—intending to crumple it to bits before its fiery death—when the door to the study clicked and swung open.

Alois let his arm flop to the desk as Claude entered the room. As far as the young earl knew, no funny-business was to be done in the butler’s presence. The thought made Alois pout and lean on his forehead once more, avoiding all means of meeting the demon’s eyes.

“What do you want?” he snapped. It was actually more of a whine, as the earl felt too lazy and too miserable to really snap.

“We were merely checking on you, Your Highness,” Claude’s voice droned.

 _We?_ Alois scrunched his brow and lifted his head to rest it on his chin. At the edge of the doorway, he could see the three purple-haired triplets’ heads, one on top of another, staring at him. He snarled. He hated when _these three_ acted foolishly.

“Splendid,” Alois piped, beaming a sour grin, “And as you can very well see, _Claude_ , I am having a jolly old time wallowing in self-pity.” With that, he knocked his head back onto the desk, ignoring any possible reply from his butler.

After a moment, Alois heard a faint mutter and whipped his head back up to glare at the three identical servants in the doorway. They were _always_ muttering among themselves. He hated that, too.

“What did you three idiots say now?” he seethed. He usually regretted probing their chatter, but was too worn-out and curious to care.

The triplets eyed each other, then looked to the young earl, who had raised himself from the desk and was drumming his fingers upon its edge.

The topmost brother replied first, breaking their ever-silent demeanor, “Wanted to make sure Master did not hang himself.”

Alois raised an eyebrow and blinked. He noticed Claude twitch.

The middle servant—Timber, he believed—spoke next. “Master is too cute to hang himself.”

Alois raised a hand to hide his smirk. _I_ am _too cute to hang, no?_ he thought.

Seconds later, the lowermost triplet completed the brothers’ ritual speaking pattern with a short, “Too cute.”

The earl nearly laughed as he saw Claude’s palm make contact with his face. _Alright,_ he mused in his mind, _Sometimes they are good for something._

A thought suddenly pricked Alois’s head. “You know,” he lamented, catching all four of the servants’ attentions, “That sounds like a grand old idea.”

Alois reached up to the bow at his neck, loosened it with a quick tug, and turned it to the back of his neck. With a turn of his wrist, he twisted the smooth, silken bow into a makeshift noose and yanked.

Claude stared in horror as his master pretended to gag and choke like a condemned pirate. Eventually, the earl caught sight of his astounded butler and added a burst of giggles to his repertoire of hangman’s sounds.

Presently, and with a frustrated huff, Claude strode across toward his master to intervene when the low ringing of the doorbell resonated through the manor.

Alois’s eyes widened and immediately made contact with his butlers’. _Could it be…?_ he thought, jaw dropping slightly, _Could that Irish girl really be showing up now?_

Jumbled thoughts muddled through his head— _She can’t be here now. But who else could it be? Perhaps it is her. Yes. It is. Finally—_ so the earl hardly noticed his butler’s hurrying departure until his coattail had disappeared from the doorway.

With a gasp of realization, Alois hopped out of his chair, over his desk, and bolted after Claude, shoving the triplets to the side as he did so.

Claude was striding at an inhuman pace—as Alois had to sprint to even follow the demon. Somewhere close to the staircase leading to the foyer, Claude slowed to give a curt order to Hannah, jutting his thumb over his shoulder.

“Make him presentable again,” he said midstride. Hannah gave a short nod and turned to head off the running earl.

 _You? Make_ me _presentable?_ Alois sneered and picked up speed. _I think not._

“Out of my way, you damn whore!” he shouted, skidding under Hannah’s outstretching arms and giving her a good whack on her bum.

Before he could let out a good laugh, Alois found himself crouching at the peak of the staircase and peering through the columns of the baluster at his dark butler’s procession across the foyer. At the double doors, Claude paused, adjusted his jacket with a tug, and gripped the handles. Alois saw the butler’s shoulders rise and fall in a deep, calming sigh and discovered his small self following suit.

The doors opened and Alois held his breath, feeling his hands shake against the columns. _It is her. She is here,_ he trilled in his head.

But Alois watched in horror as Claude, after a moment or two, slowly closed the grand doors, one by one. For a moment the butler kept his hands against their wooden surfaces, and Alois could have sworn that he saw a shiver run down the stoic man’s body.

Without another thought, the earl rose from his crouch and stomped back to his office. Once more, he plunged into a pit of misery.

 _Of course it was not her!_  his shouted in his mind, grinding his teeth in frustration. _Why would it be? She is not coming, after all!_

In a sudden change of mood, Alois replaced his stomping stride to a merry skip, clasping his hands behind his back and bobbing down the hall like a young schoolgirl. Upon arriving back at his office— _If that term can even be applied to this place._ A laugh pervaded his consciousness. _Who could ever be so daft as to think that_ I _would do any such petty office work?_ —the young earl planted himself atop his useless desk and proceeded to swing his slim, dangling legs.

_It is splendid, her not coming._

His left foot bashed against the desk’s front panel.

_Frankly, I do not care either way._

His right foot followed in a similar fashion.

_Why should I care?_

Left…

_There really is no reason._

Right…

_Good riddance to that damn Irish wench._

Left…

_Doesn’t want to show up, does she?_

Right… Louder, this time…

_Thinks she can forget about old Alois, eh?_

Left… Louder still…

_Well she will regret it._

Right…

_She will regret giving up on me, on our marriage, on her country._

Left…

_But I do not care, do I?_

Right… Growing softer, now…

_No, I do not believe I do…_

Left…

His right foot hovered before the now-scuffed wood. With a sigh, he looked down into his hands. He dared not admit it, but he could feel an overwhelming veil of disappointment in his heart.

A knock sounded, and Alois raised his eyes at Claude, standing before him, more rigid than ever. In his hand he held a small envelope. Alois noted with disinterest that the seal had been broken.

“Well, seeing as it was not _her_ , who in bloody hell was at the—”

“Master,” Claude interrupted with a tense tone, holding out the envelope to the earl, “This letter has just arrived. I believe you shall find it most interesting and illuminating.”

Alois hesitated before taking it. “From who—?” He stopped as he instantly recognized the seal’s insignia. A mix between a scowl and a grin plagued his face.

Shoving the envelope back at his butler, he commanded, “Read it to me. Now.”

Claude eyed the earl over his glasses. In mere moments, the adolescent had turned from a turbulent mess of emotions to a single-focused determination. A hint of a smirk piqued his pale lips before unfolding the envelope’s contents. In a bold voice, the butler read:

_From the desk of Ciel Phantomhive._

_Earl Alois Trancy,_

_It is my utmost duty to inform you of the arrival of three guests at the Phantomhive Estate. These three ladies, as it turns out, were originally callers of_ your _manor. Due to unfortunate circumstances, Lady Aoife Gallagher, Madame Hazel McLaughlin Gallagher, and their Head Maid, Bridget, will reside at The Phantomhives until the morning, upon which time they shall immediately depart a no later than nine o’clock for Trancy Manor. Late this afternoon, it seems, the Gallagher carriage was in an accident with another carriage. Seeing as the collision was nearer to the Phantomhive Estate, it was seen fit to rest here than travel the remaining distance to Trancy Manor. I, Ciel Phantomhive, ensure their complete safety._

_Due to recent events, it has also been brought to light that you, Earl Trancy, are to be bound to Lady Gallagher in matrimony this December of eighteen hundred and ninety one. As such, I express my deepest congratulations to the both of you. I hope to meet with you soon so as to discuss with you the terms of your engagement._

_Signed,_

_Earl Ciel Phantomhive_

 “That is all it reads, Your High—” Claude paused, eyes focused once more on his master in shock.

Still sitting atop his desk, Alois held his shoulders hunched and his head low. His delicate fingers gripped the lip of the desk, turning white with their force upon the wood. Soon his hands began to tremble, then his arms. The tremor travelled up and along his body until his entire torso shook.

“Your Highness?” Claude whispered, aghast.

Alois's head lowered in short jerks. It occurred to Claude that his master was breathing very heavily. Soon the earl’s breaths grew audible. He slowly raised his head and started to laugh—quietly and nervously, at first, but growing. Suddenly, he threw his head back and let out a wide-eyed, maniacal explosion of laughter.

Claude stared at the earl, unsure whether to be proud of or worried for him.

The earl gave an exuberant grin to his butler and slid off his desk. “Ciel Phantomhive?” he said breathily, “Why, this is _perfect_ , Claude.” He sauntered around the room, then stopped and leaned his palms on a side table by the window. “Absolutely—” In a flash of sudden fury, Alois swept his arm across the table, knocking it, as well as the fairly large potted plant sitting upon it, to the floor.

“—perfect,” he finished with regained composure. He turned, facing Claude with an expression that rarely occupied the young earl’s face: pure, cold, loathing.

Claude relished every fragment of the young man’s infrequent emotional lapse. “‘Perfect’?” he hissed, an uncanny giddiness bubbling up inside him. “How so, Master?”

“She is here, for one.” Alois shook a finger, vaguely in thought, and took up The Queen’s letter in a rough grip. “That much we now know.”

“True, Your Highness,” the butler did all he could to keep from grinning—yes, grinning—at his master’s snap of logical resolve.

“Which leaves the matter of Phantomhive…” Alois trailed off, gazing out of the darkened window with a distant look of longing. “I believe this could all work out for the better, Claude. She will come to me, full of familiarity with Ciel after having been with him for almost an entire day and now night. Why, even I have not met with him… for… so long…”

In the reflection of the window, Claude saw his master’s face darken with arousing suspicion. A snarl tinged the young man’s lips as he whipped around and pointed a finger at the butler.

“That wench! That bloody, damned, godforsaken _wench!_ Does she think she can fool me? Say she will come to meet me, then go off cavorting with the Queen’s Watchdog, hm? Well she will not fool this earl,” Alois jabbed his chest with a thumb and held his chin high. “‘Carriage accident,’ my ruddy arse. Staying overnight at man’s mansion while being betrothed to another…”

An eyebrow peaked on Claude’s forehead. He blinked several times at his master’s growing nonsensicality. His eyes rolled up as he thought, _Well, it was good while it lasted._

“…The moment after we tie the damned knot, I’ll tell ‘er to sod off and I’ll dump ‘er in the river. What say you, Claude? Think that will treat ‘er right?” Alois ceased his ranting—at last—with an anticipating look up at the butler. The earl’s appearance had grown increasingly haggard; his hair stood out at awkward places, his clothes were ragged and wrinkled, and his left eye twitched, adding even more to his madman façade.

Claude’s eyes stared with awe at him. _His unpredictability is unnerving… However…_

Claude nudged his glasses and, with a cruel smile, hidden by his hand, said, “Why, Your Highness, I could not agree with you more.”

With a bow, the butler exited the office, brushed past Hannah and the triplets, and trotted down the hall with a spring in his step, only then letting forth his demon nature in a seething, fanglike, unbelievingly exuberated grin.

 _Why,_ _my dear Ciel Phantomhive,_ he thought, _I do believe you are so close…_

He licked his lips as his eyes flashed a brilliant gold.

_...that I can almost taste you…_

* * *

 

At the peak of night, when even Earl Phantomhive had drifted into a deep sleep, all was still. The crickets and cicadas chirped and called, giving off the only sounds on the whole estate. As far as anyone could tell, the entire mansion was in a slumber.

Actually, that ‘anyone’ would be wrong.

In one of the mansion’s many corridors, where shadows adorned the walls and floor in a dark blanket, a thin sliver of light winked into existence as Bridget creaked open the door of her guestroom.

Candlestick in hand, the slim girl entered the hallway with furtive side-glances down each way. Ensuring that she was the sole awakened person in the manor house, she let out a sigh and made her way slowly along the floor, past the other occupied rooms.

 Bridget crept through corridor after corridor, trying to remember what she was told. She had studied her map several times, but no human could remember the entire blueprint of the Phantomhive mansion. In her mind she cursed the inopportune crash with the Midford women. In a lapse of thought, she had forgotten her copy of _The Primrose Path_ —which conveniently held detailed maps of several Englishmen’s estates—in their overturned carriage. Nevertheless, she realized she must forget her misfortunes, try to recall as much as possible, and carry on.

In the seclusion of her journey, Bridget recalled the day’s events. Her mind wandered from the uneventful train ride, to travelling through the countryside in their carriage, to the crash, to their arrival at the Phantomhives, where she first saw the tall, strapping form of Sebastian Michaelis—she felt warmth creep into her cheeks and relished a long thought of the Head Butler—to finally tea in the garden…

A sneer grew on the pale girl’s face. All day, just as any other, Bridget had been pushed aside or deemed incompetent by precious, little, Lady Aoife.

 _Arrogant girl,_ she thought with a snarl, _How dare she be cast me aside. I may not be the most appealing woman, but I daresay I am much more suitable than her. I, unlike_ Saint Aoife _, am a practical, sensible, ladylike—_

A loose floorboard caught Bridget’s foot, and she nearly screamed in her surprise. With a huff and a glance cast around her once again, she continued, more cautious than before.

Really, Bridget was a clumsy, easily frightened girl, just as Lady Aoife had deemed her. Once in a while she jumped at a creak in the floor, or at an unusually loud cricket chirp. Eventually, her breathing quickened with anticipation and anxiety. She could not be discovered wandering about.

 _Just a little further,_ she thought, _I think…_

Finally Bridget faced a door. With any luck, it was most definitely the one she was searching for. She inhaled and exhaled slowly and reached for the knob to enter.

“May I help you, Miss Bridget?”

The maid jumped almost a foot into the air and whirled around. Before her stood the butler himself, Sebastian, holding a candelabrum in one hand and giving off a dazzlingly contrite smile.

“Forgive me, Miss Bridget. I did not mean to startle you.”

Bridget merely nodded, all the while cursing in her mind. _What the hell is he doing up at this time of night? And still in his day attire, no doubt… Does he ever sleep?_

“Pardon my curiosity,” Sebastian hummed, “But were you perhaps in search of a bathroom?”

Bridget nodded again quickly. _Bathroom,_ she thought, _Sounds legitimate, right?_

The butler chuckled and Bridget felt herself turn red. She hoped that, with the dim lighting, he would not notice.

“I assumed so. After all, Miss Bridget, what business would you have in my room?” Sebastian tilted his head and smiled.

Bridget’s eyes widened. _His room?_ _Damn it all! Wrong room!_

“Here, let me escort you to the bathroom,” Sebastian said, placing a hand behind Bridget and gently leading her away from the door. With a chuckle, he shook his head and added, “I know this mansion can be a confusing map to follow.”

The maid looked up at the butler—into his enticing, unusual, bloodred eyes—with incredulity. Was he insinuating something…?

Nonetheless, she felt obliged to play along to Sebastian’s implications. Perhaps he will leave her once they arrive at the bathroom. Then, she could continue her search.

To the girl’s dismay, however, after Sebastian had brought her to a dark door on the opposite side of the mansion—his hand having been resting upon the small of her back and sending occasional jolts up her spine—he proceeded to stand outside the door. Once his back was turned and the door was shut, Bridget scowled in defeat. She removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. With all her might she hoped that this was not the only opportunity she would have.

Exiting the bathroom after a few minutes—she had to give the illusion, did she not?—Sebastian escorted Bridget back to her own guestroom. She stepped in as he held the door for her. Placing down her useless candlestick on a nearby side table, she faced Sebastian at the door, hands clasped in front of her.

Trying to maintain her façade, the maid stammered, “Th-thank you, Mister Sebastian. I apologize for the trouble.”

Sebastian smiled softly and, as he slowly shut the door, said, “Not at all, Miss Bridget. Pleasant dreams…”

Just before the door closed, Bridget saw, with a gasp, the butler’s eyes glow a brilliant red. With the faint light of the candelabrum, they shimmered menacingly. Even after the door had shut, the girl could still see his eyes burning through the wood, still staring at her intently.

She staggered away, eyes wide and mouth ajar. She knew those eyes. She just could not believe they belonged to _him._

Feeling a shiver along her shoulders, she whispered to the darkness, “Those eyes…”

She wrapped her arms around her abdomen, suddenly feeling cold, and finished:

“Those are the eyes of a demon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four more, four more, four more. Ahhh.
> 
> Also, surprise! Bridget's not as boring and useless as we thought! What's up with that?
> 
> \--Kiiro


	6. Flamboyance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Alois starts to live up to his 'little shit' tag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know... my beta reader at the time once told me that I had an eerily good handle on the personality of Alois Trancy... Sometimes I wonder if that leaned more towards insult than compliment.
> 
> What's your take? c:
> 
> \--Kiiro

_If you meet a red-haired woman, you'll meet a crowd._

_\--Irish Saying_

“Must you really leave so soon?”

Aoife sighed deeply. She had been asked the same exact question at least fifteen times since she had awoken, and it was not even half-past nine yet…

“Lizzy, I think we have already overstayed our welcome quite a bit,” Aoife chuckled, clasping the handle of her trunk and handing it off to Bartholomew, who was to be their coachman for the day. With a heave he lifted it into the back of the carriage.

Elizabeth’s shoulders slouched, and a pout appeared on her face. From behind her, Ciel placed a hand on her head and patted her blond locks.

“There, there,” he consoled, unable to keep a slight smile off his face. “We do not want Earl Trancy”—Aoife noticed the strain in Ciel’s voice as he struggled to keep a pleasant tone—“to have a fit over his guests arriving any later than necessary now, do we?”

“I should say not,” Aoife murmured ruefully. She turned from the carriage to face the group that had assembled to bid the three Irishwomen farewell—Earl Phantomhive, Elizabeth, Marchioness Midford, Sebastian, and even all the other Phantomhive servants. Aoife smiled. Her visit may have been short, but she could not help feeling glad to have met such a colorful bunch of people.

Earl Phantomhive then turned to speak to Madame Gallagher, who was conversing with Sebastian and Baldroy. _Apologizing for her behavior, no doubt,_ Aoife thought with a smirk before allowing her gaze to drift over the whole of the Phantomhive Mansion’s exterior.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun shone down from its endlessly blue perch, giving the dew-covered landscape a newfound sparkle. In the rustling trees, birds sang their morning songs and flitted about from branch to branch. Everything was fresh and new, and the more Aoife surveyed, the less she felt the need to leave this place.

 _But I must…_ she thought. _If I do not get back on track soon, living pleasantly with Earl Trancy might not be possible._

A remorseful smile touched the girl’s lips once more. “Some wife I am turning out to be already,” she murmured.

“Aoife?”

Aoife looked up at Lizzy, who still stood before her, wringing a small handkerchief in her hands and biting her bottom lip.

“Yes, Lizzy?”

The two girls’ eyes met, and suddenly Elizabeth’s filled with tears. She let out a choked cry and threw her arms around Aoife, squeezing her in a death grip.

Aoife gasped at the impact and gave a strained chuckle. She patted Lizzy’s back and said playfully, “Now, stop that! You will soil my dress!”

Refusing to let her friend go, Lizzy whimpered between sobs, “You had better come back and visit once you get settled.”

“Of course. I will only be a few miles away, after all.”

Lizzy released her friend—who let out a long breath after having her lungs trapped in a bear hug—and stepped back, dabbing beneath her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Good,” she said, pouting again.

Aoife shook her head. “Now will you please cease that incessant blubbering?”

Lizzy gave a weak smile and laughed. “I must look horrid,” she said.

Aoife shook her head. “Fear not,” she replied in an undertone, giving a mischievous grin, “I am sure Earl Phantomhive will still love you even with tear stains down your cheeks.”

At the sound of his name, Ciel threw a questioning glance over his shoulder, making the two girls giggle. The earl’s face flushed instantly, causing them to laugh even more. Rolling his eyes, he turned to resume his conversation with Aoife’s mother.

Aoife was still holding a hand over her mouth in amusement when Elizabeth touched her shoulder and gave a serious look. With a gentle nudge, the blonde moved her friend away from the group, all the while gaining questioning glances from her.

Once the two were out of earshot, Lizzy faced Aoife and, after a short gaze over her shoulder, whispered, “I was talking to Ciel this morning after he woke up—by the way, I never did ask, how was your night? Everything suit you well?”

Aoife blinked from the sudden change of tone. “Ah… Fine, yes. I slept like a lamb.” Her face seemed to darken as she remembered the morning’s events. “At least, up until my mother decided to ‘wake’ me.”

Lizzy giggled, seemingly forgetting her motive for their private chat. “I thought I heard screaming. Was that you?”

“If you heard the banging of a wooden spoon on a pan _and then_ a scream, then yes, that was me,” Aoife said with a grimace. After a moment of thought, she snapped her fingers and added, “Remind me to scold Bard for letting my mother _borrow_ a cooking pan from the kitchen…”

“Oh, right!” A light seemed to go off in Lizzy’s head, and she responded as if she had not even heard Aoife. There was a pause before she said with a brush of her hand, “Forgive me, of course I will, but listen.” She leaned closer to whisper in a surprised Aoife’s ear once more.

“I was talking to Ciel this morning and he seemed concerned—well, more than usual—about something. So, being the loving fiancée that I am, I would not leave his side until he told me what was on his mind. Eventually he gave in to my charm—after all, who could resist this cute face? Anyway, Ciel had just been talking with Sebastian about… well, about your maid…”

“Bridget?” Aoife said, astounded. She glanced over Lizzy’s shoulder at the maid, who was chatting with Maylene and Finnian, and sighed. “What has that lump done now?”

“Is she known for trouble?” Lizzy gave Aoife a worried look.

Aoife frowned and pushed a loose curl behind her ear. “Not particularly… She’s a useless thing, but I have known her for years and she _seems_ to be trustworthy. Why, what happened, Elizabeth?”

Lizzy backed up somewhat and avoided Aoife’s gaze, absently wrapping the handkerchief tightly around her fingers. “Well, at around three this morning, Sebastian found Bridget about to enter his room.”

“Whose room?”

“Sebastian’s, of course.”

Aoife’s eyebrows shot sky high. Flabbergasted, she gawked at the shy little woman blushing as the butler-in-question walked close to her to talk to Finnian. Aoife turned back to Lizzy.

“Are you _serious?_ And you are _sure_ it was her?”

Lizzy nodded slowly.

Aoife’s mind raced, thinking back to the previous day at all the times when she had caught the maid staring at the dark butler. Slowly, she looked Lizzy in the eye.

“You do not think she expected to… try to… with Sebastian…?” she murmured, her face growing extremely warm, “Do you?”

The two looked at each other, then at the maid and butler, then back to each other, unsure how to react. Lizzy opened her mouth to speak, then closed it—for once at a loss for words.

Aoife spoke instead. “I… cannot imagine why… she would do such a thing…”

“Sebastian had said that she was lost in search for a restroom. He took her to the lavatory—which was located on the other side of the mansion—then back to her room.”

The Irish girl let out a laugh and turned her back to the group. “Right. _Lost,_ ” she whispered, shaking her head. “I truly cannot fathom…”

“The fact that a female snuck to Sebastian’s room in the middle of the night, or…?” Lizzy’s voice trailed off, a rare smirk on her face.

“Ah…” Aoife could not keep from smiling, “More the fact that Bridget was the female who did so. Now that you mention it, I can somewhat fathom her actions… After all, he is quite the handsome man…”

“ ‘Handsome’? You ladies would not happen to be talking about me, now, would you?”

Aoife and Lizzy jumped at Ciel’s voice from behind them. They whirled around to a smirking young earl, holding a cane in one hand and a top hat in the other.

“No, not at all!” Lizzy shouted, waving her hands and shaking her head. She paused a moment, and after a raised eyebrow on Ciel’s part, she squealed, “Oh, dear! Not that you are _not_ handsome, Ciel. In fact, you are _exceptionally_ handsome. Much more so than Sebastian. Not that _he_ is not handsome. Of course _he_ is! In fact, I think—”

“Elizabeth…”

The young lady was silenced. Aoife bit her lip, shifting her glance between the two. _They are quite the comedy duo. Honestly…_ she thought with an inward grin.

Ciel cleared his throat and faced Aoife. “Lady Aoife, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I hope you visit again soon.” He lowered his head in a bow and placed the top hat upon his head, adding nearly half-a-meter to his total height. Overall, the young earl seemed to be much more well-rested; his hair was neatly combed, there was more color to his face, and his visible eye had a sparkle to it.

Aoife curtsied. “The pleasure is all mine, Earl Phantomhive. And I assure you that I will be visiting again soon.” She gestured to his hat and cane. “Are you leaving as well? You do not intend to follow me to Trancy Manor, do you?” She gave a sly smile.

Ciel shook his head, his visible eye closed. “No, no,” he chuckled, “Worry not. I have business in London today and thought I would get an early start.”

Aoife was skeptical and made sure it showed on her face. Ciel held up his hands.

“I promise,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Unless I have business with Trancy—which I _highly_ doubt I will ever want to—”

“Ciel…” Elizabeth warned, taking on her fiancé’s scornful tone.

The earl blinked before continuing, “My visits to Trancy Manor will forever be short and few, Lady Aoife, even _with_ a charming woman such as yourself in residence.” He ended with an un-Ciel-like grin.

Lizzy and Aoife exchanged glances. Ciel nodded and was about to walk away when he held up and finger, as if remembering something important.

“Ah, yes. Lady Aoife, I was just talking to your mother. She told me that after a few days, she was to leave you alone at Trancy Manor?”

Aoife saw Lizzy turn toward her from the corner of her eye. Ciel tilted his head, waiting for a response. It was then that Aoife noticed a slight change in the earl. This young man, who had seemed to be a kind gentleman, had a deeper nature—one Aoife was not entirely sure what to make of yet. He seemed… inquisitive?

 _Nosey is more like it…_ Aoife could not help but think, feeling bad that she was suspecting a sinister side to Ciel Phantomhive.

“Yes, that was the plan,” Aoife said nonchalantly. “My mother would stay at the manor for several days with Earl Trancy and me, after which she would stay in the area for the wedding in December, after which she would return to our home in Ireland to tend to her own affairs there. We had not really thought farther than that…”

Ciel nodded his head slowly in understanding while Lizzy dropped her jaw.

“You are going to stay there… alone?” she asked in horror.

Aoife sighed inwardly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes. As I said, that was the plan. My mother wishes to ‘stay for as minimal time as possible’ because she wants me to ‘make the best of this marriage’ or something of the like.”

This time, Ciel and Lizzy exchanged glances and said nothing. Aoife sighed louder.

“Bridget will be with me.”

Ciel’s shoulders relaxed while Lizzy let out long breath and laughed. “Well _that_ is a relief!” she said. “At least you will not _really_ be alone.”

“Elizabeth…” Aoife narrowed her eyes at the girl. Clearly she was not happy with the idea of having her maid schlep along with her all the time.

Earl Phantomhive cleared his throat again. “Do you have a particular place for your mother to stay once she departs from Trancy Manor?” His eye twitched. Aoife ignored it. She was used to his antics when it came to the Trancy name by now.

After briefly pondering the earl’s question, Aoife shook her head. She had not thought of where her mother would be staying. She just knew her mother would want to stay at least within a few miles of her daughter. Perhaps London…?

Ciel smiled. “What would you say if I offered my mansion as temporary residence for Madame Gallagher?”

Aoife blinked. Perhaps she was wrong about the earl. _This_ must have been the real reason for the earl’s queries. Though, she could still sense something… She was just… not sure what it was…

“Really? You would open your home to her? _Again?”_ she asked incredulously.

Ciel chuckled. “Of course,” he said without the slightest hint of strain in his voice. He wrapped an arm around his fiancée’s waist and continued, “Elizabeth has _graciously_ offered to stay here until your wedding—she would like to be as close as she can to you, in fact—and we would love to have her. Right, Lizzy?”

Surprised, Lizzy placed a hand on Ciel’s shoulder and nodded, her pigtails bouncing like springs.

Aoife smiled warmly at the pair—absently thinking that they made a lovely couple—and clasped her hands in front of her. She curtsied and said graciously, “Thank you both. This means a great deal to me. I hope my mother gives you no trouble during her stay. Now if you will excuse me, I shall go inform her.”

“Oh, she is already aware of her staying here,” Ciel said plainly. Aoife looked up at him and he gave a laugh. “I told her she could reside here before I even joined you two ladies. Your maid seemed to be indifferent to the idea, but Madame Gallagher overruled her. It was quite comical, if I do say so myself.”

Aoife offered a half-grimace, half-smirk at the earl and said playfully, “You, Ciel Phantomhive, are a scoundrel.”

The next few minutes seemed to pass quickly for Aoife. Her good-byes to the others of the Phantomhive Estate were short, seeing as time had slipped by quite a bit and they needed to get on the road soon. She promised several times that she would visit often once she was settled. Lizzy shed more tears and she was joined moments later by Finnian and Maylene. Even Bard seemed to sniffle once or twice.

At the moment when Aoife faced Sebastian for her farewell, she was surprised when the butler bowed, took her hand in his, and kissed it lightly.

A jolt of electricity shot from her hand and spread to her entire body, making her cheeks turn pink. _Quite handsome, indeed…_ she mused. With sudden mischievous thoughts, Aoife glanced behind her at Bridget and gave her a devilish grin and a wink, making sure no one else noticed. The maid’s face turned a bright red and puffed up like a balloon.

Other than that, the remaining adieus were uneventful and before she knew it, Aoife found herself sitting in the extravagant Midford carriage, waving out of the window. For a moment, she noticed Sebastian bend down to whisper into his young master’s ear. Ciel murmured something back, and Aoife’s curiosity compelled her to wonder what had been exchanged between the two.

As the carriage pulled out of the Phantomhive Estate, Aoife could feel the butterflies return to their swirling dance within her. Despite the heat, goosebumps appeared on her skin, making her pull down the sleeves of her dress. She let out a shaky breath, and moments later she felt a hand rest on her arm. Aoife turned to see her mother’s gentle smile and gave one in return.

She exhaled again, this time glad that it seemed to be smoother than before. With a strained smile, she whispered to her reflection in the window, “This is it…”

 

* * *

 

The Irishwomen were finally departing on their journey to the devil’s nest. Ciel maintained his charming façade, but could not help inwardly scowling at the whole ordeal. He stood before his staff, beside his fiancée, one hand on his cane, the other raised in farewell as the carriage neared the gate.

“My Lord,” Sebastian whispered into his ear. The earl did not even flinch at the demon’s alarmingly close proximity.

“What is it?” he hissed in an undertone.

“What is your reasoning for Madame Gallagher residing here once she leaves her daughter’s side?”

Ciel could not help smirking, but only slightly. A façade must be kept consistent, no?

“My dear butler, you should know me by now,” he murmured in a cheerful tone, making sure Lizzy did not hear him.

Sebastian looked down at the earl with a questioning gaze.

Ciel’s smile grew as he said, “I always prefer keeping my chess pieces on the board, do I not?”

 

* * *

 

Trancy Manor was once again in a flurry of activity. Servants darted in and out of every room with lightening speed, armed with feather dusters, flower pots, and the occasional grandfather clock.

At the top of the grand staircase, Alois watched the fray with a dulled interest. He yawned, not once thinking of assisting them and instead arching his back in a stretch. A series of dull cracks ensued before he straightened again. For the second day in a row, the earl had been dragged out of bed, forcibly bathed, and had been combed and preened and polished to look as presentable as possible.

 _Not that any of that did anything,_ Alois sneered in his mind. With a smirk and a flip of his hair, he added, _I was perfect even in my sleep._

In the back of his mind, though, Alois felt a strange déjà vu from the process. Was it from a dream where he was made to look his best? _How silly… It is probably just from yesterday…_ he thought. A cold feeling rooted itself in the young man’s gut, contradicting his belief. _Or maybe it_ was _from a dream… or a nightmare…_

In the foyer below, two of the triplets were running toward each other—one held the bust of some hag Alois did not know while the other carried a mantle clock above his head. His train of thought having been broken, Alois raised an eyebrow as they drew closer, hoping for a collision. Unfortunately, the two spun out of each other’s way at the last moment, leaving no collision and a disappointed earl. The one with the clock—Alois neither knew nor cared which of the triplets he was—made a sharp left and scuttled up the steps. As he went past, the clock he carried chimed half-past nine.

A shiver went down Alois’s back. He let out a long sigh. She _will be arriving soon,_ he thought. _This time, for sure._

In anticipation, Alois bounced on the balls of his feet. He barely noticed when Claude ascended the stairs and paused beside him. The butler adjusted the earl’s bow at the base of his neck and looked the young man in the eye.

“Master, please remember everything I have told you.”

Alois nodded, and Claude noticed a fiery determination in his eyes. The butler was surprised, but did not show it.

There was a pause before Claude said, “Your Highness, I must ask. What has made you have such a drastic change of heart?”

Alois looked up into his butler’s eyes. He replied in a serious tone, “I just know what I am fighting for now, Claude.”

Claude turned, hiding the excitement on his face from view. He began descending the steps, then paused, facing the earl again, his face once again stoic.

“One thing I neglected to mention, Master. Be sure to keep your contract mark hidden. We do not want Lady Gallagher to learn of more than she needs to.”

Alois nodded, picturing the intricate amber pentagram marking on his tongue. He furrowed his brow. _Hiding it will be no easy task…_

Claude descended the stairs once more and departed the room, leaving Alois alone. The earl inhaled slowly, taking in the warmth from the sun’s rays as they beamed through the windows, and exhaled, running through his mind every bit of advice he had received from Claude.

Realization set on him and a chuckle rippled through his small frame. He beamed a maniacal smile and said to himself, “This is it…”

 

* * *

 

The carriage turned through a wrought iron gate and into a grand courtyard, one of similar size to the Phantomhives with a large expanse of neatly cut grass and shrubbery. It was then that Aoife got her first glimpse of Trancy Manor—her new home.

 _Home…_ she thought. The simple word made the butterflies in her stomach go aflutter once more. In her excitement, she lowered the window and stuck out her curly head to get a better look.

Aoife gasped. The mansion was enormous—perhaps even larger than the Phantomhive mansion. Along its front, pillars held elegantly shaped stonework above the many large, shimmering windows. The mansion itself was several stories high, with a steep, peaked roof the same color as a misty sky. On the roof, at regular intervals, gargoyles sat and watched the large courtyard below. The manor was more medieval than Aoife was used to, but she reassured herself that it would grow on her.

As the carriage approached the double front doors, Aoife tried her best to calm herself. She looked about the carriage; to her mother, who rubbed her daughter’s arm encouragingly; to Bridget, who gave a shy smile and nodded.

The carriage turned and came to a stop before a tall set of stairs leading to the mansion’s entrance. The carriage’s door opened and a man with purple hair offered his hand to Aoife. Ignoring his oddly-colored head—she assumed that it was another of England’s strange customs—Aoife smiled, took his hand and stepped out of the carriage, thanking him in the process. As the purple-haired servant assisted her mother and Bridget, Aoife took a few steps toward the mansion, staring up in awe at its highest peak.

Before her, she then noticed the same purple-haired man bowing lowly to her. Aoife blinked and looked behind her. The same servant was still helping Bridget step down from the carriage steps. Aoife whirled back, confused.

 _Two of them?_ she thought, turning back once more and watching as the carriage door was closed by yet _another_ purple-haired man. Aoife let out an exasperated breath. _No, three of them… This is going to be interesting…_

The three Irishwomen strode up the tall steps, accompanied by one of the three identical servants. Before the double doors, Aoife stopped and breathed. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see her mother’s equally eager face.

“Are you ready, my dear?” she said softly to her daughter.

Facing the door, Aoife put the best smile on her face, sighed once more, and said, “Ready.”

 

* * *

 

Alois paced the top of the steps, his boots clicking along the stone floor. Claude once more ascended the steps and stopped once he was eye level with his master. He opened his mouth to speak when the doorbell tolled. Alois froze and locked eyes with Claude.

Their gazes hovered for a moment, then Claude turned and approached the double doors. He gripped the handles, but before opening them, he said over his shoulder, “Remember everything I have told you.”

His voice was stern and echoed across the room. Alois waved a hand and responded, “Yes, yes. I know, I know.”

The earl noticed his butler’s eyes glint gold for a moment. Silence proceeded, until Claude said lowly, “Are you ready, Your Highness?”

Alois tilted his head sharply to either side, cracking his neck loudly. He grinned evilly and said, “Ready.”

Sure, he _said_ he was ready. In reality, though, Alois could feel his hands shaking. He could _not_ mess this up. He could _not_ upset Claude. He could _not_ let Phantomhive win this one…

As Claude drew open the doors, however, Alois felt his feet propelling him backwards, away from the stairs, toward the hallway and the dark shadows he both feared and adored.

 

* * *

 

“Lady Gallagher. Welcome. We have been expecting you.”

Aoife gazed up at the tall man before her—a butler, she assumed—in shock. He had a long, pale face, ebony hair styled intricately to one side, and startlingly bright, gold eyes behind small, frameless spectacles. Despite their brilliance, though, Aoife noticed a stark dullness behind those eyes—one of boredom or strictness. What really gave her a start, however, was the butler’s striking resemblance to the Phantomhive butler, Sebastian Michaelis.

 _Cousins, maybe? Or some sort of relative, at least…_ she thought, exchanging a short, surprised glance with her mother.

The butler backed away from the door’s entrance and swept an arm inward, beckoning the Irishwomen inside. Aoife felt her voice catch in her throat, so she merely nodded in acknowledgement and followed the butler inside.

If the Phantomhive mansion had been grand, what Aoife beheld before her was nigh on… on… well, the only word she could think of that suited the Trancy estate was… flamboyant.

The walls that spanned up toward the high ceiling were of a deep red hue, accented with ornate gold trimmings along the edges—truly a lavish combination. Sunlight gleamed through the open door as well as two large windows and shined on the expanse of clean, marble and the enormous, single staircase leading to the second floor. Overall, the mansion so far gave off a feeling of regal countenance—where grand parties were held and important people met. Fleetingly, Aoife wondered if the Buckingham Palace she had heard so much about was this grand.

Stepping further into the foyer and beaming with excitement, Aoife looked about for her fiancé. To her disappointment, however, not a single soul was present in the room.

Giving a small sigh, she rested her wandering eyes finally upon the butler, who had moved to stand before the Irishwomen, and lowered himself into a bow. “Welcome to Trancy Manor, Lady Gallagher,” he repeated in a deep voice which reverberated around the tall, open foyer. “I am Claude Faustus, Head Butler to the Trancy estate.”

Aoife curtsied. She then said in a proud tone, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Faustus.” With a delicate hand, she gestured to her right, “This is my mother, Madame Hazel McLaughlin Gallagher.”

Madame Gallagher curtsied, and the butler bowed in response.

Aoife then jerked a thumb to her left and stated rather bluntly, “Oh, and this is Bridget, my maid.”

From the corner of her eye, Aoife saw Bridget twitch and jerkily curtsy. The butler followed in a similar, albeit less clumsily, manner.

Once he stood straight again, Claude cast a furtive glance over his shoulder and up the grand central staircase across the room. Aoife furrowed her brow and followed his gaze to the staircase’s top landing. Her eyes lingered there for a moment, as if expecting the absent earl to appear out of thin air. Thinking that he may be there, Aoife found it difficult to breathe…

“Mr. Faustus,” Madame Gallagher called grandly—a tone Aoife scarcely ever heard escape her mother’s throat—and stepped forward. “This mansion is quite the grand site. Do you tend to it yourself?”

Aoife raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Bridget, who shrugged her shoulders with wide eyes.

The butler, Claude, nudged his glasses further up onto his nose and cleared his throat. He seemed irritated for some reason, but nonetheless answered with his same polite tone. “Quite the contrary, madam.” He snapped his fingers with a sharp _crack._ Immediately four people emerged in a surge of purple from a nearby doorway and stood at Claude’s side. Aoife noticed the triplets all together and squinted, trying to discern each one with the minutest details. Finding none, Aoife shifted her gaze to the forth servant.

This woman was like no person Aoife had ever seen before. She stood almost as tall as Claude, yet unlike the pale butler, her skin was of a darker hue, offsetting her long, silvery, purple-tinged hair. It was tied behind her in a low braid that reached past the small of her back. Upon her face, however, Aoife noticed a white patch over her right eye.

And, of course, she was adorned in a purple maid’s dress. Aoife began to sense a pattern in this household…

“These are the servants who assist in the affairs of the manor, Madame Gallagher,” Claude droned. “I believe you will get to know each of them in due time.”

The servants bowed. Claude then stated the names and occupations of each servant, but Aoife’s attention instead drifted away from the butler’s dulcet tone—it was quite similar to Sebastian’s, in fact, though she noted a slight dryness to it. Her eyes glanced again along the top of the staircase, searching for a hint of the mysterious earl.

Suddenly, Aoife noticed an instant flash of blonde on the right side of the landing. Her eyes stayed there, but as quick as it had appeared, it was gone. She felt her heart speed up. _Was that just…?_

“Aoife? My dear, are you alright?” Aoife heard her mother say to her. She shook her head slightly, the flash of color still fresh in her mind.

“Yes…” Aoife turned to see everyone staring at her and felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, forgive me…” she said, half-chuckling. Then, after clearing her throat, Aoife addressed the Head Butler, “Mr. Faustus? Will Earl Trancy be joining us soon?”

 

* * *

 

Alois lurked at the top of the stairs, occasionally peeking through the balustrade’s columns, and inadvertently listened to bits and pieces of the ensuing conversation.

His heart beat at an alarming speed, and it took all his might not to breathe too loudly. His mind raced with a frenzy of thoughts. _She_ is _here._ Here. _Right now. In my foyer. She is here! It is her! Power. Power! I can already taste the power she will bring me…_

He peeked through the balustrade once more, and immediately caught the piercing gaze of Claude. Drawing back with a sneer, he thought, _Damn Claude, expecting me to wait boldly at the top of the steps, was he? … I hope he is not cross… Oh, but now what do I do?_

“Mr. Faustus,” Alois heard from the foyer. “This mansion is quite the grand site. Do you tend to it yourself?”

Alois scowled. _Who the hell is that? Tch._ That _had better not have been my wife…_

“Quite the contrary, madam,” Claude said. Alois heard a _snap_ and the scuffling of feet. A fleeting glance around the corner told him Claude had called out the other servants for introductions.

“These are the servants who assist in the affairs of the manor, Madame Gallagher. I believe you will get to know each of them in due time.”

Alois scoffed. _Trust me, they are not worth knowing,_ he wanted to say.

As his butler began to drone on and on about each of his ‘prized subordinates,’ Alois plucked up his courage to take one more, longer, lingering peek. He wished to see her at least once, fully, rather than a blur of color. Had he seen a flash of orange…? Green perhaps…?

He let out one more breath and popped out his head—possibly more than need be, he later realized. He froze as his glance rested upon the scanning eyes of a young lady, about his age, with billowing waves of orange, Irish curls that hung over her slim shoulders and down her back, and topped with a small, flowery hat. The rest of her frame was endowed in a rich, green, summer dress. In comparison to the foyer, she stood out.

Suddenly realizing that he had been noticed, Alois quickly pulled himself back into the hall. He pressed his back against the wall, his eyes wide and breathing silenced.

“Aoife? My dear, are you alright?”

Alois hissed in a single breath, fearing that he was going to be forced to make a premature appearance.

“Yes…”

 _Aoife? That is her name, is it?_ Alois thought. _Weird name…_

“Oh, forgive me…”

She was chuckling. What was so funny…? She was not going to rat him out, was she?

Alois paused his racing mind for a moment. Her voice. It triggered something inside him; something he couldn’t quite grasp or put into words. It was like… the sound of notes plucked on some sort of instrument… A pretty instrument, obviously. Not like some godforsaken mouth organ like the one Claude had given him once. He had been incessantly bored one day, and it had been raining. He had stuck to Claude’s side for three hours straight, complaining, when the butler had pulled it right out of his breast pocket. “Here, entertain yourself,” he had said, presenting it to the earl. It had kept him busy for all of three minutes until he had become bored of its depressing tones and had thrown it against Hannah’s head...

“Mr. Faustus? Will Earl Trancy be joining us soon?”

Alois broke out of his reverie. What had he been thinking about again…? With a few quick slaps to his face, Alois decided that it was time he made his appearance. If this girl wanted to see him that badly, then see him she will.

He would give her such a pleasure despite her being the wench that she was. Alois was just that nice of a young man.

Adjusting his violet frock coat and readjusting his floppy neck bow, Alois heard Claude state in a slightly annoyed manner, “Why, yes. Master should be coming down to greet _his guests_ any moment now…”

It was then that Earl Alois Trancy stepped into the light of the foyer, in full view of everyone below—including his wife-to-be.

 

* * *

 

“Worry not, Claude. I am here!”

Aoife let out a small gasp and snapped her gaze to the staircase. Descending the steps was—Aoife was sure of it—indeed, Earl Trancy.

The first thing she beheld about her fiancé was the neat crop of blond hair atop his head. He had a round, boyish face, ending in a sharp chin, which framed a beaming smile with dazzlingly white teeth and slightly pinkish lips. His large eyes were a bright sky blue, and Aoife fleetingly thought that if she looked closely enough into them, she would see tufts of white clouds.

Though Aoife knew they were the same age, she thought the earl looked younger than her. Perhaps it was just the distance between them that gave the illusion…

Aoife was not surprised to find the earl adorned in a purple coat, under which he wore a black-lined, forest green vest and a white, button-up dress shirt. Around his neck was tied a large, black bow. What did catch Aoife unaware, however, was the pair of dark shorts Earl Trancy seemed to be wearing, accompanied by tall black stockings and slightly shorter, brown, lace-up, heeled boots.

Though the immediate thought of her husband-to-be in such… short… _attire_ made Aoife’s neck feel warm, she quickly dismissed it with the brief thought, _Englishmen…_

The young earl delicately descended the stairs with the utmost grace, and for the moment, Aoife forgot every single thing Earl Phantomhive had told her. _Be careful?_ she thought with a slight smile. _Careful of what?_

Aoife took a tentative step forward, her hands clasped before her, and said in a surprisingly soft voice, “Earl Trancy?”

“Ah, my dear, Lady Gallagher,” the earl trilled as he stopped before the Irish girl, who instantly noted that he was taller than she was—but only just.

Aoife began to curtsy, finding it difficult to get a good grip on the edges of her dress, for her hands were shaking so. Before she could, however, Earl Trancy scooped her hand in a quick, fluid motion and bowed, kissing it softly.

Aoife felt herself blush heavily as the earl looked up into her eyes and said in a smooth, breezy tone, “I am Earl Alois Trancy. Welcome to my manor.”

For the next few moments, the thunderstruck girl stared at the young man, trying with every nuance of her being to say something in return. ‘ _The pleasure is all mine, My Lord.’ No!  That sounds silly. ‘And what a lovely manor it is, Earl Trancy.’ … What?!  Oh, good God, he is waiting for me to say something! Oh, he is staring at me—staring with those big, blue, innocent, little lamb eyes… Arrgh! Am I falling victim to his charm, like Ciel said? … I cannot let that happen!! Though I must make a good impression… Oh, but Lizzy would be so cross… But, Earl Trancy seems sweet—Oh, Aoife! He has barely said five sentences to you. Get a hold of yourself!_

“Hee…” Aoife squeaked.

Earl Trancy blinked, the lids of his eyes fanning down with possibly the longest eyelashes Aoife had ever seen on a young man. One corner of his mouth twitched in what seemed to be a smirk. “I beg your pardon, Lady Gallagher?” he said, his tone contrite.

“Aoife?” A hand touched Aoife’s forearm, startling her. She turned, seeing her mother’s concerned and slightly nervous face. Her eyes shifted back and forth between her daughter and the earl. “Aoife, Earl Trancy is talking to you… Have some propriety, dear…”

Once her mother retreated, Aoife faced the earl again, barely aware that his hand still held hers. Something seemed to click in her head, and she promptly said, “Oh, my. I do apologize, Earl Trancy. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

With her delayed response, Aoife took her hand from Earl Trancy’s and curtsied properly, bowing her head low to conceal her embarrassment.

To her surprise, the earl began to laugh—a sweet sound which was light and childlike. Aoife raised her head, befuddled.

“Do not apologize, Lady Gallagher,” he said, waving a hand. “You have been through so much these past few days. Perhaps not all your wits are about you, hm?” He grinned.

“Of course,” Aoife answered a bit too quickly, feeling color flood her cheeks again. “And it is a pleasure to meet you, Earl Trancy,” she added.

The earl clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, grinning even wider. “The pleasure is mine, my dear Lady Gallagher. Now, would you like a tour of the manor? It can be quite the maze, but with a little help I am sure you will be able to manage.”

“Ah...” Aoife was unsure what to say. For a first meeting, things seemed to be moving quickly...

“Oh my, and who are these two lovely ladies?” Earl Trancy brushed past Aoife to address Madame Gallagher and Bridget. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, “Are they your sisters?”

Madame Gallagher let out a bubbly giggle while Bridget bowed her head. “Oh no,” the madam said, holding out a hand to the earl and giving a coy half-curtsy, “I am Aoife’s _mother,_ Hazel Gallagher.”

“Mother?” the earl gasped with incredulity. “Goodness, that cannot be! I see barely any age difference between the two of you. Would you not say the same, Claude?”

The earl looked to his butler, beaming. Claude merely gazed down at his young master, expressionless, and said after a moment of silence, “Indeed.”

Aoife’s mother let out another timid laugh. Aoife rolled her eyes upon seeing her blush.

Earl Trancy moved to Bridget. “And you must be…?” he began, taking her hand.

The maid flinched at the earl’s touch and, with obvious shyness in her voice, she murmured, “I-I am the head maid t-to the Gallagher family, My Lord…” She curtsied hastily, adding, “B-Bridget…”

Earl Trancy bowed, saying, “A pleasure. I daresay you just might get along well with my servants, here, Miss Bridget. My maid, Hannah Annafellows, should be able to teach you a thing or two.” The earl turned to face his one-eyed maid and said cheerily, “Correct, Hannah?”

Aoife noticed the maid’s eye widen, glance fleetingly to Claude, then back to her master, then to Bridget. Giving a weak smile, she nodded.

“And perhaps you may have some luck with the triplets over there.” He nodded his head toward the three, identical, purple-haired men. “God knows I will never be able to distinguish one from the others. Nonetheless, they are Thompson, Timber, and Canterbury. Which one is which? Well… Good luck asking them.” The earl ended in a shrug, and Aoife saw Bridget furrow her brow in confusion.

Earl Trancy then clapped his hands once, the sound echoing around the room. “Now then, shall we begin the tour?” he said in a high-spirited voice, moving toward the staircase. He paused beside Aoife and held out his arm, looking into her eyes and lifting his chin a bit, smiling. Aoife could not help but feel a wave of relief. For a moment, she had almost felt forgotten by the earl.

Glancing to her mother, who she saw waving her hands in encouragement, Aoife felt a smile spread across her face, one that mirrored her fiancé’s. She took his arm, delicately resting her hand upon the velvety sleeve of his frock coat, and felt a slight surge of excitement in her chest.

_This is what it will be like. Just like this. Always. I can feel it._

And, arm in arm with Earl Trancy, Aoife ascended the stairs, eager to explore the mansion she was to call her home.

 

* * *

 

_Oh, for the love of God. How long am I expected to keep this up?!_

Once the girl’s back was turned—it had taken him _forever_ to get rid of her—Alois had scampered down a side hall, eyes wide and breathing strained, for a moment of solitude. He leaned his back against the cool stone of the wall and loosened his neck bow.

_These women. My God. What have I done to deserve this cruelty?_

Things had started out so well, it had seemed. Of course, it had taken all of Alois’s strength not to slap the green-eyed wench when she had stared at him after he gave the best performance he could. Remembering her squeak of a response, Alois rolled his eyes, imagining greeting her years from now, once they were already married, and only gaining in response an airy “Hee…” The thought made him sick. _Is she really this inane?_ he wondered to himself.

He had thought better of her. At first glance, she looked to be the perfect package of what an earl’s wife should be. Decent-looking, interesting fashion sense, an air of semi-intelligence… But now…

But hey, what did it matter to him? With a sly smirk, Alois noted, _She will not be here ‘years from now’ anyway._

“Oh, there you are, Earl Trancy!”

Alois’s eyes widened. He swore under his breath as the girl’s _mother_ —good _God_ , her mother—approached him. With feigned grace, Alois stepped away from the wall and said pleasantly, “Madame Gallagher, did you need something?”

“My daughter wished to speak to you, but she said you had run off.”

 _So she noticed. Wonderful._ “Oh, dear. I do hope she forgives me. You see, my health is not at its best, and I had run out of breath…” he lied.

“My, Earl Trancy! I had no idea…” The woman took Alois by the arm. Annoyed, yet feeling obligated, Alois led her in the direction the rest of the group had taken.

As they walked, and the Irishwoman blathered on with her incessant chatter, Alois quickly looked the woman up and down—without her noticing, of course, as she seemed to be quite thick in the head. The earl was not impressed. If _this_ was what his fiancée was going to look like in the future, she should be grateful that she would never be reaching her mother’s age.

The woman was plump and slightly shorter than he was, with a modest dress and an extravagant hat atop her head. She had the same color hair as her daughter, but age had not been kind, and the tresses were more gray than auburn. As much as he could determine from underneath the madam’s hat, her hair had been twisted intricately into a swirling bun at the base of her neck.

Alois pouted his lips in thought, grateful that the woman did not realize that he gave not one single damn about what she was saying. In their procession, the two had neared the top landing of the staircase once more. Eyeing the stairs, Alois slowly edged to his left, intending to ‘accidentally nudge’ his future mother-in-law... A little tumble down fifty-four marble steps never hurt anyone, after all...

“Your Highness.”

Alois felt a hand clamp down upon his shoulder and snapped his head up to see Claude, eyes sharp, standing before him. Behind the pale butler stood the rest of the group—the wench, one of the triplets (the other two had gone to unload the wench’s stuff from her carriage), Hannah, and the dowdy maid girl.

“We thought you had gotten lost, Master,” the butler droned, staring into the earl’s eyes and lightly squeezing his shoulder. Alois briefly glared back at him, enraged that his plan had been foiled.

Releasing the Irishwoman’s arm from his grip, Alois said with gaiety, “No, no. How shameful that would be, Claude, for me to get lost in my own mansion!” He looked around his butler, inconspicuously jerking loose from his grip, and addressed his fiancée, “Forgive me, Lady Gallagher. I was merely catching my breath.”

The girl shook her head and held up a hand, indicating that she took no offense by it. _Good,_ Alois thought. _She had_ better _not make a fuss._

The tour continued. Lady Gallagher and the other two Irishwomen—her mother and that quiet one who kept eyeing the triplets—had already been shown the guest rooms they were to stay in, the kitchen, the ballroom, the other ballroom, the directions to all the restrooms in the manor (Alois lost count at five) and the library. The girl had adored the sight of the library, and would have proposed to stay there for the rest of the day had her mother not given her a stink-eye and muttered something about how ‘improper’ she was being.

Looking back on it, Alois bent his head and snickered. _Whipped,_ his mind crooned.

Suddenly, he felt something touch his arm and went rigid. _Claude, again?! What now?_

Alois looked up quickly to meet eyes with Lady Gallagher and hesitated, still in slight shock at the sudden contact. Her hand was lightly touching his forearm, and Alois realized too late what her intentions were. Seeing the callous expression on his face, Aoife shrunk back from him and continued to walk along the corridor, alone.

“Sorry,” he heard her whisper.

 _Oh, great._ Now _what did I do?_ Alois thought desperately, wanting—more like _needing_ —to make amends. Hastily, he shot a glance over his shoulder at Claude, who was currently in the same position his master had been in not ten minutes previously—arm in arm with Madame Gallagher and trapped in her swirling wave of chatter.

Alois widened his eyes at the butler, discreetly nodded his head toward Lady Gallagher, and shrugged his shoulders. Briefly, Claude’s golden eyes flickered down to his arm, holding that of Madame Gallagher’s, then to his master, to the wench, and back to his master, the array of glances ending with an intense stare that made the hair on the back of Alois’s neck stand up.

The earl sighed, faced front, eyed Lady Gallagher for a moment or two, and gulped. Plastering an apologetic look upon his face, one that he was sure would make the wench’s heart melt, Alois held out his arm.

Her face lit up, and the young earl felt relief flood through him. The two then turned a corner in the hall, arm in arm, and happened upon two large, glass-paned doors leading out to the garden. Alois gestured to them.

“And here,” he said in a grand tone, “we have the garden.”

Feeling her hand tighten on his arm, Earl Trancy stole a glance at his fiancée. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and her small, pink lips were parted in awe.

In his mind, Alois rejoiced. He had his hook. _Ha! She will never want to leave now…_ Perhaps now he would not have to try so hard to please her.

With a nod, the earl motioned to Hannah and... whichever triplet it was... Promptly, the two servants each gripped a door and opened it outward, allowing for the summer breeze to penetrate the stuffy hall and tousle Lady Gallagher’s—as well as Alois’s, to his annoyance—hair.

As the group stepped out into the sunlight, Alois leaned close to Lady Gallagher’s ear, his forehead brushing against the brim of her hat, and whispered, “I think you are going to like it, my dear...”

 _My dear little wench..._ he thought with a chuckle.

 

* * *

 

The moment Aoife’s eyes beheld the Trancy estate garden, she was sold.

From the white, windowed doors, cobblestone spread out widely to either side, forming a lovely patio adorned with wrought iron tables and chairs. From there, a single stone path led further into the depths of lush flora. Bright chrysanthemums and violets, elegant lavender and lupines, delicate primroses and vibrant Black Eyed Susans—among a multitude of other flowers Aoife had never even seen before—waved and danced in the summer sun. White trellises entwined with swirling vines of ivy curved over the path at regular intervals throughout the garden. Looking farther, Aoife caught sight of a small clearing of grass, dotted with the occasional willow tree—one large willow in particular had a carved stone bench at its base.

 _A charming little grove,_ Aoife thought, trying with all her might to take in the entirety of the beautiful woodland paradise without grinning like a fool. _This place is…_

“…simply wonderful,” she murmured, catching a pleased look from Earl Trancy.

Breaking away from her fiancé, Aoife clasped her hands and stepped out onto the patio, deeply breathing in the air—the fresh, wholesome, clean air, tinged with the light perfumes of the flowers around her—and feeling a chill from the familiarity of it all, despite the heat. She let out a sigh and closed her eyes, imagining that she was back in Ireland, on the grounds of her own manor house. It was a perfect match. By sight, by smell, by sound…

Hearing the earl’s approaching footsteps (coupled with the scattered background noises of Madame Gallagher and the others chatting and scuttling along the cobblestones), Aoife opened her eyes and faced him. Seeing the pleasant smile on his face and hearing the light chuckle he gave, she felt her cheeks warm.

“So,” the earl said, standing beside her and surveying the grounds of his estate, “Does it suit you?”

Aoife caught his eyes—his big, bright, blue, doe eyes—and saw that they were observing her with a subtle, playful sparkle.

 _Strange,_ Aoife pondered, pretending to ogle the scenery once more, _He seems happier than before._

Throughout her tour of the Trancy estate, Aoife had regarded the earl as a complete and utter gentleman. As far as she could see, he was as polite and eloquent as she had hoped him to be.

Though… there had been one small hitch during the day. The group having just left the library—which Aoife assured herself that she would definitely visit again soon—Earl Trancy had announced, “Now, if you will follow me, I shall show you to the garden, Lady Gallagher.”

Feeling a small notion in her gut to—shamefully—compare Earl Trancy to Earl Phantomhive, Aoife had cleared her throat and said, “Aoife.”

The earl, walking in front of her, had paused midstride. The rest of the group had moved past him, content in their light chitchat with each other. Earl Trancy had seemed to hesitate and, turning his head toward Aoife slightly, had asked rather stiffly, “I… I beg your pardon?” Despite the hesitation, the pleasant expression had never left his face; it had not twitched in the slightest.

“Please, Earl Trancy, call me Aoife.” She had wanted to believe that she could be familiar with her fiancée, and had thought that a first-name-basis was a good start. Besides, Earl Phantomhive had settled on ‘Lady Aoife,’ and he was not even the one Aoife was to marry!

To her disappointment, however, Aoife had witnessed her fiancé blink, throw a glance toward his butler, then face her fully and say somewhat hastily, “We had better be moving along now, _Lady Gallagher._ It would be quite unseemly if we were to be left behind.”

And with that, he had gripped her by the arm and hastened toward the others. Once they were all together again, he had released her. She had turned to perhaps plea once more, but the young earl was gone.

“Is something wrong, dearie? Where is Earl Trancy?” Madame Gallagher had said, looking about, and Aoife had shaken her head.

“I… am not sure. I had wanted to talk to him about…” her voice had trailed off as she had noticed the entire group staring at her once more. How she hated that... Her mother had then patted her cheek, declared that she would find the earl—despite the objections of the Trancy staff and Bridget—and had taken off down the hall.

Presently, and allowing herself a sigh, Aoife pondered if she had done something wrong then. Was there a reason the earl had taken off? Had he really just been ‘catching his breath,’ as he had said? She doubted it…

“Lady Gallagher?”

She looked up. Earl Trancy’s eyes were still on her, and now a pale eyebrow was raised on his forehead and a smirk plagued his lips. There was something else in his expression. What was it? Annoyance? Had his happiness disappeared because of her momentary lapse of thought?

“The garden, does it suit you?” he repeated, gesturing in a wide sweep of his hand the landscape before him.

This time, Aoife kept her gaze on the earl. She examined his face, waiting for that smile to return. Deciding that enough was enough, and that formalities were over and done, Aoife sauntered over to the nearest seat—a white, wrought iron chair next to a small, matching table—planted herself upon it as if it were her own, crossed one leg over the other with exaggerated purpose, sighed, and said with a broad grin, “Yes. I believe I can live here.”

Earl Trancy’s eyes widened in surprise, and Aoife prided herself in that small action. She would not be swooned so easily—with marvelous flowers and fancy speech—and a bit of surprise would make the earl work for her hand. The idea amused her, and she allowed herself a small smirk.

Ignoring her mother’s mortified expression, as well as the horrific tornado of butterflies whirling in her stomach, she kept her calm gaze on the earl, waiting for a reaction.

Surprisingly, after his initial reaction, Earl Trancy seemed remarkably unruffled. He matched her smile and, after a small laugh—sounding more childlike than before—he said, “Yes. Yes, I believe you can, too, Lady Gallagher.”

Earl Trancy then moved to the other side of the table, his boots— _Goodness, the heels are taller than my own..._ —tapping along the cobblestones loudly in the silence that followed. Pulling out the other chair, he sat down in an identical fashion to Aoife’s, leaned an elbow on the table, and said in a singsong voice, “Shall we chat over tea, now, My Lady?”

 

* * *

 

Mere minutes after Alois had demanded for tea (Sure, he must have sounded sincere and nonchalant, but to be frank he was actually dying for his afternoon tea and could have cared less about the chatting.) it was laid out on the wrought iron table before him, amidst a mix of alluring smells and tastes.

Sipping his tea, Alois glanced around the table. Seated to his left was Madame Gallagher in all her homeliness, and sitting across from him was his _lovely_ —a term he would use sarcastically, as she seemed to be an edgy little spitfire—bride-to-be.

 _‘Yes, I believe I can live here, Mr. Earl Trancy. Oh ho ho, I could live anywhere, be it here or at the bloody Phantomhives. Har dee har!’_ he snidely mimicked in his mind. Perhaps he was milking it a bit, but he would not let the Phantomhive matter rest until _she_ had brought it up. He would make _her_ be the bigger man—er, woman. As degrading as that may be, he delighted in making people squirm.

He watched her—watched as she filled her little plate with the little pastries he ordered his little servants to whip up; watched as she laughed lightly at a chastising comment from her mother; watched as she faced him and smiled, her little speckled face glowing with her little round nose and... slim, rosy cheeks and... big green eyes and... and... that little scar above her left eyebrow...

_What was I thinking about just now...?_

“Earl Trancy?”

 _Look up, stupid,_ Alois told himself, his gaze having drifted to the glinting silver tray between them, _The wench is talking to you._

“Huh?” he grunted, and immediately wished he had not. _Sure, Alois. Throw everything Claude’s taught you right out the window. That is perfect. You are a genius._ “I mean, yes, My Lady?”

Lady Gallagher exchanged a glance with her mother, and Alois panicked. Did he make a mess of things again?

“Earl Trancy, about yesterday...” Lady Gallagher frowned and looked down at her hands.

Alois repressed a smirk. He knew she would bring it up sooner or later, rather than chattering on about his mansion’s beauty or how lovely the day was.

Before the wench could say another word, her mother put a hand on her shoulder and said, “We are sure you have already received a letter from Earl Phantomhive explaining the situation.”

This time, Alois held back a scowl. _Refrain from interrupting your daughter’s squirming, please,_ he thought impatiently.

There was a pause. Feeling that he was obligated to respond, and absently noting Hannah refilling his teacup, he kept a calm face and replied, “Yes, I did receive a letter from Earl Phantomhive.” He made sure not to smile. He had seen how the wench kept searching his face, kept trying to please him and keep him happy. He lifted the refilled cup from its saucer and brought it to his lips. “And I am well aware of the events that transpired.”

Lady Gallagher seemed to burst out of her seat, startling Alois and nearly making him choke on his tea. “I deeply apologize! We did not mean to be late! It is just... my mother was injured, then we reunited with the Midfords, and the Phantomhive mansion was closer and...” she was saying, her voice full of sincere emotion and regret.

 _Blegh._ Alois felt a twitch in his eye at the girl’s every mentioning of ‘Phantomhive’ or ‘Mr. Michaelis,’ and struggled to keep a straight face as excuse after excuse poured out of her dainty little wretched mouth.

A gentleman would have stopped her right from the off, and would have said such things as “No, no, dearest. The fault belongs to no one. There is no need to apologize, for I completely believe you...”

 _Rubbish,_ Alois thought. He was no gentleman. He could try and pretend all he wanted, but dress a goat in a silk dress and it is still a goat.

“...and then there was the Scotch my mother was accidentally given which made her ever so loopy that we simply _had_ to stay with Earl Phantomhive...”

That piqued Alois’s interest. _So Ciel drugged her mother to make her stay? How pathetic..._ Smiling behind his cup, he decided this frantic girl needed to be comforted. He needed to lure her into a false sense of security—one only he could grant. And oh, he knew _exactly_ how to play her...

He brought down the teacup on its saucer with a definite clatter, causing the ranting girl to pause and look at him with utter desperation.

“Earl Trancy?” she murmured in a weak, little voice.

 _She believes I am angry with her,_ Alois mused, faux-sighing in thought to further fret the Irishwoman. _Smart girl,_ he added in his mind with an inward sneer.

After what felt like several minutes, Alois plastered a warm smile on his face, gazed up at Lady Gallagher from under the heavily-lashed lids of his eyes with a look that—in his opinion—could melt even the coldest ice, and said, “I do not hold this against you, My Lady.”

He watched as Irish girl and her mother heaved great sighs of relief. The wench then collapsed into her chair and ran a hand over her forehead. “Thank goodness,” she said softly.

“However...” Alois held up a finger, instantly obliterating the Irishwomen’s reprieve. The girl held her breath, waiting for the earl to proceed—a moment which Alois relished, having her hang on his every word.

He lowered his hand and continued, twirling his teacup around on its saucer and finding this all too easy, “I was somewhat disappointed—and worried, of course—when you did not arrive yesterday.”

Lady Gallagher bowed her head, having lost all of her previous vigor. Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder again. Alois restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

Turning around in his seat, the young earl eyed his butler standing with the rest of his servants—along with the Irish maid girl, who was talking to Hannah and did not notice his gaze—not too far away from the table. Claude regarded his master with an intense stare—a warning not to worry the women further for fear of an untimely departure on their part. Vaguely, Alois recalled a comment from his butler earlier in the day, about how he was not to press Lady Gallagher on the matter, and how he was _not to negatively mention Phantomhive in any way,_ for fear of any estranging assumptions.

 _Hmmm..._ _Not a very significant decree on your part, Claude..._ he thought, feeling particularly mischievous. _Are you trying to suppress_ all _my fun?_

In return to his butler’s stare, the earl offered a playful grin and a wink. He tried not to laugh as Claude visibly sighed and nudged his glasses in annoyance.

Whirling back around, Alois faced the two ladies before him and clapped his hands together. With a beaming smile he trilled, “Now, now, never mind that. After all, I did say I held nothing against you, did I not? The past has passed, after all. What say we move on to more pleasant conversation, hm?”

The girl seemed to brighten, sharing an elated look with her mother, and nodded, settling more comfortably in her chair and reaching for her cup. Madame Gallagher took the opportunity to pile her plate with an assortment of cakes from the center of the table.

Alois smirked. _Comfortable, are we?_

“So now, do tell me...” he began, lifting his half-empty teacup toward his lips and eyeing his fiancée.

She looked back at him, waiting pleasantly and sipping from her own cup.

“...how _is_ that old goat, Ciel? Still got a stick up his arse, or has the Midford girl finally straightened him out?” The earl finished with a hearty laugh as Lady Gallagher choked on her tea. Behind him, Alois heard the all too familiar sound of Claude’s gloved hand making contact with his face.

 _Oh ho ho..._ Alois crooned, downing the final dregs of his tea and letting the last few drops fall onto his tongue. _This is going to be fun..._

 

* * *

 

Aoife hugged a pillow to her chest. There were so many on her bed in her extravagant room that it hardly changed the appearance of it at all. _Flamboyant, indeed..._ she thought.

She sat on the bed, her brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the day. It was hard, of course, with her mother pacing the room, spouting out words of praise about her husband-to-be.

“Oh, he is simply _divine!_ What a complete and utter gentleman, I must say! He surely is a good match for you, dearie. Quite the charmer!” the madam giggled. “And he does have a certain flair about him. Certainly not boring at all. Completely different from Earl Phantomhive...”

Aoife sighed and collapsed against the mass of pillows behind her, not particularly caring about her hair getting ruined. _He really is... different..._

‘Different’ was good, right? She did not want to have a stuffy, upright nobleman as her husband, did she? Perhaps a bit of eccentricity was just what she—

The door across the room opened and quickly shut, and Aoife noticed Bridget skulk into her field of vision. Immediately Madame Gallagher pounced upon her new prey.

“Bridget, dear! What do you think of Earl Trancy? Is he not simply wonderful?”

Aoife sat up, watching the maid with dulled interest. _It would be nice to get another opinion of him,_ she thought. _Perhaps then I could form one myself._

Bridget avoided her mistresses’ gazes and shrugged. “He seems... a bit out of sorts. I am really not sure whether he—”

“Nonsense!” Madame Gallagher exclaimed, clasping Bridget’s shoulders. “Just a bit high-spirited, is all he is!”

Aoife considered this. _Maybe that is all there is to it. He could just be a bit more lively than Ciel_ , _nothing more._

“I... am not so sure, madam,” Bridget said, almost sternly. Aoife raised a brow.

“Nonsense, Bridget,” Madame Gallagher repeated, releasing the girl and pacing the room once more. “Earl Trancy is splendid. What do you think, darling?”

Realizing her mother was addressing her, Aoife tossed the pillow back into its pile and grinned. “He is lovely, mother. I am glad you approve of him.”

With that, she moved toward the open window, where the sky was once again a palette of warm hues. She sighed, recalling that exactly twenty-four hours ago, she had nearly made herself sick with worry about meeting Earl Trancy. Now...

“Wonderful!” Madame Gallagher clapped her hands together. “Oh, I completely approve! He truly is a man of high standards! Just look at his manor!” She held out her arms, gesturing to the grandeur of her daughter’s room.

 _There she goes again..._ Aoife shook her head and leaned her elbows on the window sill. She sighed again. _Well, Earl Trancy may be a little off from my original expectations, but he seems like a good person. I will... just have to get used to him, I guess._ Aoife looked down at her hands, hoping it to be possible. Clenching her fists, she smiled, resolving that she would make it possible. She would learn as much as she could about the earl, and she would make sure he would do the same. She refused to forever live in ignorance and seclusion from him.

Aoife felt someone move beside her, and expecting her mother, she turned with a soft smile. However, it was only Bridget, so the smile immediately morphed into a scowl.

“What is it, Bridget?”

The maid flinched at her harsh tone, but Aoife had no remorse. Bridget was... well, Bridget. She was shady. One moment she was the quaint little library-goer with her cracked glasses and pale face, the next moment she was a slinky, suspicious girl who tried sneaking into men’s rooms at night. Aoife had no idea what to think of her. She never did really, not since she was young, after _he_ had disappeared...

“Lady Aoife, I think this is a mistake. Earl Trancy... he... I have a bad feeling about him,” she said in a strained voice.

Aoife looked at her, then shook her head. “Stop imagining things. It is unbecoming. Earl Trancy is everything we expected—an Englishman, a noble, and a young man who can help our homeland. There is nothing more than that. Now stop pressuring me and go slink off to the triplets for comfort if you have such horrible feelings!”

Aoife’s voice had risen, and she felt her hands shaking. Bridget cowered before her mistress, her face red and her eyes wide and teary.

“Aoife...”

Turning, Aoife saw a shocked look on her mother’s face. With a snarl, she whipped around and leaned her hands on the window sill, her face downcast.

“Aoife, apologize at once,” Madame Gallagher said, her voice calm but insistent. Aoife ignored her.

Hearing Bridget speak next, Aoife clenched her teeth, trying not to lash out at her yet again.

“Madame Hazel, please. Do not blame Lady Aoife. My feelings are irrelevant and I should not have spoken them. I... I will leave now.”

Footsteps sounded for several seconds, then the slow opening and shutting of the door. Aoife closed her eyes. Perhaps she had gone too far this time...

Silence followed the maid’s departure. Then, footsteps approached and Aoife heard her mother sigh.

“That was well-handled,” she said. “Honestly, dear, what is the matter with you?”

“I... do not know.” Aoife ran a head up her forehead and to the top of her head, where she felt her hat still sitting and ripped it off, feeling the pins that held it to her head tug sharply at her hair.

“It has been a long day. Aoife,” she paused to take in a breath and exhale, “I am happy that you think highly of the earl and want to defend him, but... Bridget has a right to have her own opinion of her new master...”

Aoife turned to face her mother. “Oh. Right. She is to live here now with me, I had forgotten,” she droned, and added sarcastically, “How foolish of me.”

Madame Gallagher’s brow creased, and she put her hands on her hips. “Now Aoife, if you are to have that kind of attitude I just may stay for a month instead of a few days.”

Aoife’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in objection. Before she could say anything, however, her mother added, “Rather, show some propriety”—Here, Aoife rolled her eyes—“and be _nice_ to Bridget. In fact, I will go get her right now and you will apologize. Do you hear me?”

Reluctantly, Aoife nodded. What could she do? It would be especially difficult to get closer to the earl if her mother was hanging around like an old clucking hen. _For Ireland!_ a small voice shouted in the back of her mind. A smile snuck onto her face. Had it really only been a day and a half since she had made that declaration? Somehow, in the long run, it applied here, too. _I think..._

Suddenly, Aoife felt her mother’s arms around her. With some surprise, she hugged her back. In her ear, Aoife heard, “Worry not, dearie. Things are going to get much better. It has only been the first day, so it was destined to be a tad... well, awkward. You must have mixed feelings right now, and I do not blame you. So please, be strong. Forgive the cliché, but I think your father would want you to persevere. To grow and learn together with Earl Trancy and make the best of this situation.” She pulled away from her daughter, and Aoife felt her heart clench at seeing tears in her eyes. Madame Gallagher smiled and winked upon adding, “You never know, Aoife, you two just might be able to make the best of this marriage in every way.”

Aoife’s face instantly flushed. “Mother!” she hissed, not able to keep the smile from creeping back onto her face. Together, mother and daughter laughed. Madame Gallagher then patted Aoife’s cheek and left the room.

Leaning back against the window sill and gazing up and behind her at the darkening sky, Aoife mulled over what her mother had said. She was right, of course. She always was, in the end.

For a moment, Aoife looked around her, examining outside the window. To the right, she saw a sturdy yet attractive balcony, one that looked out onto the garden below, with its dark, waving trees and shadowy-colored flowers. Again her eyes were drawn to the small stone bench beneath the largest willow tree. It seemed... familiar, somehow.

Aoife’s mouth twisted in thought as memories flooded into her mind. Memories of her youth, in Ireland, with...

Shaking her head, Aoife crossed the room, walked out the door, and headed off to find her mother and Bridget. It would give her something to do. She wanted something to do. Something to keep out those memories. Memories of...

 

* * *

 

“Bahh, Claude... Is dinner ready yet?” Alois whined, sprawled out atop his desk and glad to have rid himself of the Irish wench and her portly mother. “I am completely starved. I might eat a cow, Claude...”

“Dinner will be ready shortly, Your Highness,” the butler droned—rather stiffly, in Alois’s opinion. “Shall I inform Madame and Lady Gallagher?”

Staring up at the ceiling, Alois attempted to cross his eyes—for God knows what reason—sticking out his tongue in the process. “Sure. Whatever,” he murmured, not breaking his concentration. After a moment, Alois chuckled to himself, “Actually, I think _Madame Gallagher_ could do with being a little late to a meal.”

Claude glared at his master. He turned, then, and left Alois’s office, closing the door with a purposeful slam. Sitting up, the young earl stared at the door, pouting.

“What the _hell_ did I do now?” he moaned. He thought his first impressions had been up to par. His butler, however, thought differently. Heaving a sigh, Alois collapsed once more across his desk, this time leaning sideways on his elbow and facing the door.

He was sure he had done well. The girl seemed to be enjoying herself in his mansion. She especially liked the garden. Good for her, because he hated it. Too many _other flowers,_ not enough _bluebells._ But he could never tell Claude that. Or any of the other servants for that matter. Why?

 _Damn demons do not need to know so much about me. Be them on my side or not, they can get the hell out if they think they can get to know me._ He scowled. _Same goes for the wench. The damn little spitfire..._

“They think they can know me? Bahh...” he mumbled, picking up and twirling a sharp ink pen between his fingers with flawless expertise, as if he had spent years perfecting the simple skill.

There was a light knock at the door, and at Alois’s call, it opened to reveal a hesitant Hannah. The pen stopped twirling between the earl’s middle and index finger.

“What?” he barked at her, making her wince as if she had been physically hit.

“Dinner is ready, Master,” she said weakly, not meeting the earl’s eyes.

“Wonderful,” Alois said sweetly, adjusting the pen in his fingers. With a deft flick of his wrist, the pen was sent flying across the room toward the maid. Gasping, Hannah quickly closed the door to block the pen’s path. With a dull _thunk_ , the pen lodged itself in the wood, exactly where Hannah’s head had been.

Alois laughed at first, then whined with mock-disappointment, “Aw, darn. I missed.”

Reaching behind him, Alois took another pen from his opened desk drawer and held it between his thumb and forefinger, ready to throw. A mischievous smile crossed his face as he beckoned playfully to the cowardly demon he knew still lurked on the other side of the door.

“Oh, Hannah...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE TO GO GOD BLESS THIS IS LITERAL TORTURE
> 
> 7/1/16: minor edits for story flow purposes! Nothing too extraneous. I'll be tweaking a few things in chapter 8, as well.
> 
> \--Kiiro


	7. Gentleman's Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the author likes to torture her OCs and Hannah.
> 
> ...and where Alois is still a little shit (as well as oblivious).

_Marriages are all happy. It's having breakfast together that causes all the trouble._

_\--Irish Saying_

Ciel was awake long before dawn broke across the sky. Clouds expanded across the horizon, occasionally blotting out the sun and giving way to a frequent chill breeze. Nonetheless, the young earl found himself sitting by the open window, an open book balanced in his lap and a glazed look in his eyes.

He turned a page and ran his gaze over the first couple of lines. After a moment, he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and flipped the book shut. He had no idea what he was reading, anyway. His mind had been on other things while his eyes unseeingly scanned the pages.

Ciel looked out of the window, wondering how the Gallaghers had fared their first night. It was not the first time his mind had drifted to the subject as of late.

“That sly bastard...” he murmured, rubbing his eyes and placing his book on a side table. “Knowing him, he must have made at least one pass at Lady Aoife by now.”

Fleetingly, he recalled several times he had been in Earl Trancy’s presence—against his will, usually—when the blonde’s coquettishness had been just a bit too obvious. One brief image of Trancy in a purple dress and pigtails stood out in particular... (Perhaps he should have mentioned that to Lady Aoife...)

Ciel felt himself shudder, and despite his tremor not being from the window’s breeze, he reached toward his bed and dragged its quilt over his body. With the onset of warmth, the earl suddenly felt a strong sense of fatigue overtake him.

 _Perhaps I could try... falling asleep once more,_ he thought, yawning broadly and leaning his head against the side of his armchair. _Just for a few minutes..._

A light knock sounded at the door, accompanied by a soft, “My Lord? Are you awake?”

The earl’s bloodshot eyes snapped open and eyed the door with a wrathful glare. _Goddamn you, Sebastian..._

The knock sounded a second time before Ciel hid his head beneath his quilt and groaned, “Yes, yes. I am awake, alright?”

The door clicked open and Ciel, hidden beneath the dark blanket, heard the butler chuckle.

“Young master, are you not a bit too old for hide-and-seek?” he crooned, his footsteps approaching Ciel’s chair.

With a moan, Ciel threw off his cover and rose from his extremely comfortable chair, moving to stand before his butler.

“Please,” the earl scoffed, “I am not a child. Also, I would never play hide-and-seek with a demon such as you.”

Sebastian smiled, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side, and purred, “What a wise young man you are.”

“After all,” Ciel continued, crossing his arms, “there is the high probability that you would get distracted by a stray cat or something and never find me. I would most likely starve to death…”

The butler’s cheery air crumpled, replaced instead with a deadpan expression. “Very well,” he said with a slight edge in his voice. “Shall I dress you for the day then, young master? Or do you wish to continue snuggling in your blankets like an infant?”

Ciel glared at Sebastian, who glared back in turn. Suddenly a smirk piqued the young man’s lips and he held up his arms to either side. “Fair enough,” he said.

Sebastian chuckled once more, beginning to unfasten the buttons of Ciel’s nightshirt. Silence befell the room as the young earl was undressed. Standing without his shirt, Ciel ran his hand along his back until his fingers came in contact with the rough branding of a slave’s insignia... His face grew downcast as he was forced to briefly relive the tragedies of his past, before Sebastian had so miraculously appeared in his life...

“Is something wrong?” Sebastian asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Ciel avoided the demon’s gaze. _Miraculous. Sure..._ he thought. “No. Just a bit worried about Lady Aoife and her mother...”

“And their young maid, as well?” the butler offered, opening a drawer and removing a crisp, white shirt.

 _“Especially_ her. You said she was about to sneak into my office?”

The butler nodded, his brow furrowed as he tried to decide between the brown and the green jacket...

Ciel brought a hand to his face and rubbed his chin in thought. “Exceptional sense of direction for never having been here before... Searching for a restroom, you say. I do remember having mentioned to our guests their locations previously in the day... And my office is nowhere near one. It really is quite suspicious. What would the Gallaghers’ maid have wanted in my office?”

“It really is quite the conundrum, My Lord,” Sebastian said, placing the green jacket onto the earl’s bed.

“And you told her it was your room?”

“Yes, I did, My Lord. For I would not be a Phantomhive butler were I to expose such vital information without knowledge of the inquirer’s true intentions.” Raising a finger proudly, Sebastian continued with a wink, “A Phantomhive butler must be vigilant and keep—”

“Yes, yes,” Ciel interrupted, waving a hand in annoyance. “Recite your mantras to someone wishing to stitch them to a vulgar throw pillow.”

Sebastian pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Spinning on his heel, he approached a dresser and rummaged through one drawer’s contents.

“Anyway, Sebastian, that is the tale I told Elizabeth. No doubt she has already relayed the tale to Lady Aoife by now... This could cause a lot of trouble for Bridget.”

“Indeed.”

The earl shrugged. “Oh well,” he said, adjusting the button of his trousers and sliding his hands into the pockets. “As long as my office was not infiltrated, I will think nothing of it.” There was a pause before he continued, “Though if they do happen to visit again, keep an eye on little Miss Bridget...”

A sudden breeze blew through the room, and Ciel felt a cold chill creep up his spine. Rubbing his bare arms, he said, “Hurry up with my shirt. It is uncommonly cold today...”

“Yes, My Lord,” Sebastian replied, draping the jacket and shirt over his arm and moving towards the young earl.

With a loud bang, the door flew open and in burst a bouncing blur of blonde. “Good morning, Ciel!!” Elizabeth warbled with outstretched arms. Behind her, Marchioness Midford lurked in the hallway with a look of mixed horror and disgust.

Ciel nearly fell over, instinctively closing his right eye and clamping a hand over the brand on his back. “Elizabeth!” he screeched. “What the _hell—?_ ” With a short downward glance he noticed his bare appearance and shouted, “I-I am not even properly dressed, Lizzy!”

The young lady pranced across the room, fully dressed herself and bubbling with delight. Ciel backed away with each step she took. With a wave of her arm she grabbed Ciel’s hand—the one he had covering his brand, no less—and clasped it between hers.

“Silly Ciel!” she giggled as her fiancé’s face flushed a peculiar pink. “We have known each other since we were toddlers and I have seen your bare behind a number of times!”

A trilling laugh burst forth from the young lady. Ciel also distinctly heard a snicker from his butler and snarled in his direction.

“Th-this is different, Lizzy!” he stammered, pulling his hand free and moving toward his bed, keeping his back from her view. “We are not toddlers anymore. You are a young woman and I am a man...” Casting a glance toward the doorway, he added in an undertone, “I am also deathly afraid of your mother...”

“Oh, please, Ciel. Get back over here! We are getting married, after all!” With that she flitted after Ciel, giggling all the while.

“Lizzy! Stop that! G-Go back downstairs. I will join you for breakfast in a moment—Oh, will you stop hugging me?! At least let me get my shirt— _Sebastian! Stop laughing at once!!”_

* * *

 

Unlike young Earl Phantomhive, Alois had quite a heavenly night’s sleep. Still curled among the covers of his bed, the blonde young man stretched his arms and yawned. Tucking his hands behind his head, Alois smiled up at the ceiling, imagining the shenanigans he would cause that day.

For the moment he had not a care in the world. The gentle breeze from his window, the softness of the warm blanket snuggled around him, and the bright chirping of birdlife outside were all that plagued his mind on this simple, calm morning.

Yet, he had the strangest sensation that he was forgetting something...

“Your Highness?” Claude’s muffled voice called from the other side of Alois’s bedroom door, startling the earl.

“Yes?” he sang in the direction of the door, sitting up and propping himself up against the bed’s headboard. As the door opened, Alois gave the entering butler a bright grin.

“Good morning, Claude,” he said as the dark butler approached. Kicking his feet out from under his blankets, he stood up and arched his back in a stretch. “Have a nice night? I surely did. Slept like a baby—”

“Your Highness,” Claude interrupted, staring down his nose at his master. “Lady and Madame Gallagher are awaiting you in the garden for morning tea.”

Alois paused mid-stretch as he processed his butler’s statement. Slowly, his expression progressed from mild confusion, to sudden realization, then finally to an exasperated scowl. With a groan, the young man collapsed back onto his bed and scrambled beneath the covers.

Claude narrowed his eyes at the burrowing youth. “What are you doing, Master?” the butler sighed.

Alois pulled down the blanket to where only the top of his tousled, blonde head and his suddenly-fatigued eyes were visible.

“I am going back to sleep,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Maybe when I wake up, all of this will have been just one, big, horrible nightmare.” And with that, the young earl was buried amongst his blankets once more.

Looking up toward the ceiling, Claude let out a sharp breath. The previous day had been so promising... in some strange way. He only hoped that his master would make up for his... _mistakes..._ during this fine, new day.

“Your Highness,” Claude said with prestige. In one swift motion, he gripped the edge of the covers and threw them off of the bed. As they fluttered to the floor, Alois sat up with a look of mortification. Before he could shout, however, Claude grabbed his master’s wrist and dragged him to his feet. Once the earl was upright—albeit unwillingly—the butler pulled him closer and stared into his eyes, making sure the young man had no other choice but to stare back.

Alois tried desperately to pull his hand away from the butler’s grip. His efforts were futile, though, due to most of his focus being stolen away by Claude’s fierce gaze.

The butler’s eyes narrowed, and Alois watched as they first gleamed their usual gold, then flashed to a glowing, aurora red. Malice dripping from his usual dull tone, the butler seethed, “Grow up.”

Alois ceased resisting Claude’s grip, and even after the butler had released his hand, he remained motionless, still locked in the demon’s stare. Moments passed before the earl’s horror-struck face melted into a blank expression. Suddenly feeling ever-so-small, Alois looked to the floor.

“Sorry... Claude...” he whispered, his voice heavy.

Claude seemed pleased. Nudging his glasses, he went about the room, opening and shutting drawers here and there to gather his master’s day attire.

Mulling over what had just transpired, Alois crossed his arms and pouted, wondering _why_ exactly he had just apologized to his own butler. Sure, he had been a little over-the-top, but there was no doubt in his mind that Claude was used to his antics by now...

“Master.”

Startled by the butler’s sudden call in the preceding silence, Alois popped his head up and said with just a touch too much enthusiasm, “Yes, Claude?”

Claude crossed the room, a purple frock coat in hand, and said, “I do believe you should begin putting your lessons to good use over the next few days.”

Alois cringed. “Have I not been doing so already?” he replied, treading lightly so as to not upset the demon again.

“Barely.” Alois felt himself wince at the Claude’s bluntness.

“Oh,” Alois murmured, watching Claude’s fingers button his white dress shirt. “So... just do exactly what you have told me?”

“Have I not been saying so all along, Master?”

The earl narrowed his eyes. Turning his head away sharply, he said, “Very well, then.”

Silence ensued once more as Claude buttoned Alois’s vest. Alois let out a sigh.

“But Claude! They are just so... so... annoying! How do you expect me to deal with these _wen—_?”

The earl was silenced by the butler’s gloved finger being pressed upon his lips. Peering once more into the demon’s golden eyes, Alois felt himself fall into a relaxing trance. One of tranquility and compliance.

“The girl’s mother will only be here for a few days, after which you need only please one woman. And how do I expect you to deal with these _wenches?_ ”

There was a glint in Claude’s eyes, and suddenly Alois felt eagerness surge through him as the butler concluded:

“By doing exactly as I have told you, Your Highness.”

* * *

 

“So then, there I was on the balcony with your father, Aoife, staring out at the most beautiful starry night anyone in the world has ever seen!”

Aoife smiled, for it was not the first time she had heard of this story. Feeling a slightly chilling breeze, she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and took a sip of tea from her cup. Its warmth seeped down her throat and spread all the way to her fingertips.

With a sigh, she thought, _Strange. Such a drastic change from yesterday... Autumn must be arriving early this year._

“And then, right there on that balcony...” Madame Gallagher paused, a finger poised to build suspense, then burst out with a laugh, “I kissed him!”

Aoife shared in her mother’s mirth. Though, there was something off about the tale this time. “Mother,” she said with a smirk, “are you sure that is how it went?”

Taking her teacup in one hand and a buttered croissant in the other, Aoife’s mother raised a brow and replied, “I should think so. It was my first kiss after all.”

“Father told it differently.”

“Oh?”

“He said you were as timid as a lamb, and that _he_ kissed _you._ ”

Madame Gallagher waved a hand. “Poppycock, dearie. At the time, that man could not discern kissing from spitting,” she said with a laugh, staring out into the garden. When she spoke again, her voice was soft in reminiscence. “He should count himself lucky, really. A dastardly man, he was. Back then, I mean.”

Aoife set her cup on its saucer, listening intently about a side of her father she had never known.

“Murrough...” Aoife’s mother said forlornly, looking up through the treetops and shaking her head. “Murrough and his best friend Henry—you remember him, right Aoife? Jolly man... Oh, but you were just a tot then... Well, anyway, they were an inseparable, devious duo and were always trying to cause trouble. Poor excuses of noblemen’s sons, they were. I do remember it was this particular party that... yes, I believe it was... the night when the two wagered a hefty amount of money to get a peek under a lady’s skirt. Amusing story, actually.”

Aoife’s jaw dropped, and quickly she glanced around the garden, making sure none of the servants had heard. Leaning closer and keeping an eye on Hannah across the patio, she whispered to her mother, “Tell me you did not allow Father to...”

“Oh heavens, no!” Madame Gallagher exclaimed. “You think I would encourage such a thing?”

 _Goodness, I hope not..._ Aoife thought, feeling warmth in her cheeks.

Downing the last of her tea, Madame Gallagher looked over her shoulder and called in a rather sing-song tone, “Oh, Hannah! Could you be a dear and refill my cup for me?”

“Certainly, madam,” the maid said, hurrying over.

“Thank you, dearie,” Madame Gallagher said once her cup was filled. Turning back to her daughter, she carried on with her story. “As soon as I heard those boys’ scheme, I sought every lady I could find and warned them of...”

Despite her curiosity on the matter of her father, Aoife tuned out her mother’s voice. (After all, her mother only had so many stories to tell and would someday repeat the tale.) Instead, she swiveled in her seat and gazed up at the mansion.

 _Late again?_ she thought, mulling over the earl’s whereabouts. _And I thought_ I _was slow in the mornings._ Her brow creased as another thought occurred to her. _Perhaps he is working? He must be a busy man, what with his company and all... Goodness, I hope he is not as bad as Earl Phantomhive..._

“Aoife, are you listening to me?” Madame Gallagher huffed, noticing her daughter’s absent expression.

“Sorry, Mother. I was just wondering about Earl Trancy.”

At the mentioning of her master’s name, Hannah visibly flinched. And Aoife noticed.

“Is something wrong, Miss Hannah?” she asked, sitting taller in her seat and looking into the woman’s downturned face. “He will be joining us, will he not?”

After a few moments, Hannah lifted her head, her bandaged face offering a contrite smile. “Everything is perfectly fine. I am sure Master will be with you soon.”

* * *

 

_~Lesson No.1~_

_Listen when a lady speaks. Listen intently and respond accordingly._

 

* * *

 

“Master...?”

“Shush, Claude. I cannot hear them...”

Claude let out a long, drawn-out breath. Briefly, he shut his eyes, thinking that once opened again, the scene before him would not actually be occurring.

But it was, and he knew no amount of childish eye-shutting could change that.

After a moment, the butler’s eyes slid open, their color glinting a hopeful—desperate, really—glow in the shadowy corridor. And, of course, kneeling on the floor and peeking out of an open window was young Earl Trancy, a look of determination on his face and an ear trumpet fixed to his ear.

And, _of course,_ outside of said window was the patio, where the two Irishwomen sat—quite far from the window, actually—chattering away and dabbling at the morning delicacies Claude had effortlessly made himself.

 _Wonderful,_ thought Claude. _He takes my lessons with a grain of salt and winds up making a fool of himself. Simply superb._

But perhaps there was a method to the madness. With that thought, the butler pressed, “What, may I ask, are you doing, Your Highness?”

Alois rolled his eyes and crossed the hall to stand before his servant, the ear trumpet now being tapped impatiently against his thigh. His lips pursed, the young earl eyed the demon, then brought up a hand and held one finger before the butler’s glowering face.

“Lesson One,” the earl recited. “‘Listen when a lady speaks. Listen intently and respond accordingly.’ Was that not _exactly_ what you told me to do, Claude?”

Feeling a jolt of annoyance, and fleetingly wanting to bang his master’s ear trumpet over his little blonde head, Claude hissed out a short, “Indeed.”

“Then there is no need to ask what I am doing, is there?” Alois said, fitting the trumpet to his ear once more and scampering back to the window. Delicately, he placed the trumpet’s large end onto the sill and crouched, his face once more a display of utter concentration as he intently listened in on the ladies’ conversation.

Claude felt a twitch in his eye. A second later he stood just behind the earl, looming over him like a dark, dangerous shadow.

Alois gazed up and instantly hissed, “Stop that, Claude! Move away! You are going to blow my cover!”

Before he could continue his protests, he was pulled to his feet, now standing fully in front of the open window. Panicked, Alois whirled around on his butler and pushed away from him, moving to hide from the window’s light.

“Oh, was that Earl Trancy I just saw?” the matronly voice of Madame Gallagher called from the patio. “And Claude! Why, _there_ you two are!”

Alois exhaled in irritation and sent a glare up at Claude, who had nodded his head in greeting at the woman and had presently moved out of the window’s view. “Damn it, Claude. See what you did?” the earl snarled, gesturing outside with the ear trumpet.

In a blur, the butler swiped the trumpet from the young man’s hand and held it up before his round, sneering face.

Leaning closer, and in a voice that highly resembled a deep, throaty growl, Claude said, _“This_ was not what I meant by _listen intently._ ” Each word came out short and dagger-like.

Wrinkling his nose, Alois offered back, “Oh, really? You seemed pretty intent on having me do _exactly_ what you said. In case you have not noticed, I am listening intently. Or, at least, I was. Now give that back!”

“What, pray tell, happened to your bout of confidence you so professed not twenty minutes ago?”

“Give that trumpet back and I will show you,” Alois pressed, his voice taking on what he must have thought to be a lethal tone. Rather, to Claude it only sounded shaky and distressed. “I will not let you down, Claude. Just give me a chance to do as you said!”

“Master?”

Alois and Claude turned to see Hannah in the garden’s double door entryway. Eyeing the floor, she stepped out of the doorway’s light and approached the two, her pale hair shimmering in the shady hall. In a soft voice she said, “Lady Gallagher wishes for you to join her.”

Claude addressed her with a short, “He will make his appearance soon. Go, now.”

Hannah then bowed and retreated once more to the garden.

The young earl exhaled and rolled his eyes up at his butler. “See what you have done _now?_ Had you left me alone, I would have been perfectly—”

“Silence.” Claude looked down at his master, his eyes flaring brilliantly in the shadows.

Alois instinctively shut his mouth at Claude’s command. And, once again, he wondered why he was allowing himself to follow _his butler’s_ orders. Frustration welled up inside of the young earl, and he looked away.

“Now, listen to me.” Claude’s voice was extremely close to Alois’s ear, making him flinch. “You will go out there. You will spend time with Lady Gallagher. You will _communicate_ with her. Engage her, for God’s sake. And there will be no more of this spying business. Do I make myself clear?”

Alois squinted in confusion. “But I thought I was already engaged to her...”

Whether the young earl was making jokes or was being honestly stupid, Claude knew not. Either way, the butler’s expression once more seethed deadly intent as he whipped up his arm to point directly out the patio doorway, similar to the way a hunting dog would signal game for its master.

“Just... go,” he said, sounding exhausted yet keeping a murderous face. “Please.”

With a steely gaze, the earl crossed his arms and stared at his servant, his superior air clearly apparent. “Do not think I will take this behavior lightly, _Claude,”_ he hissed. “We both know who the master is, here.” He moved closer, their noses nearly touching. “Just in case you are unaware, it is me.”

With prominence in his step, Alois slowly moved toward the double doors, unaware of the sudden burst of speed he was about to receive by way of Claude’s foot.

* * *

 

Aoife looked up at the sudden screech of pain that sounded from the manor’s doors.

“Well, _hell,_ Claude! Was there a real need to _kick_ me?! I swear I—”

Earl Trancy paused, his one hand at his lower back while the other pointed accusatorially into the doorway. His blue eyes wide, he glanced between the two Irishwomen and instantly changed his angered expression to a more pleasant one.

Aoife turned to her mother, who had a look of mixed amusement and shock on her face. In a whisper, the madam mused, “Englishmen...” Feeling a smile grow on her face, Aoife quickly picked up her teacup and brought it to her lips, pretending not to have witnessed the earl’s exclamation.

“Ah, Lady Gallagher, Madame Gallagher! Good morning to you both! Forgive my... ah... tardiness...” Earl Trancy said as he approached the table, a brilliant grin on his face.

Aoife smiled back at him and said, “Good morning, Earl Trancy. Do not apologize. It is your manor, after all. You do not have to change your ways just because of your guests.”

“Of course,” the earl chuckled, taking a seat beside his fiancée. “And how did you fare your first night? You slept well, I hope?”

Aoife was about to respond when her mother burst out, “Simply heavenly, it was!”

“Oh,” Earl Trancy said, sounding genuinely surprised. After a lingering look at Aoife—a look she interpreted to be somewhat apologetic—he shifted in his seat to face the older woman. “Wonderful. Your room was to your liking? My servants did not trouble you?”

As Madame Gallagher rattled on about her wondrous night, full of tranquility and exceptional service, Aoife sunk in her chair and blew a stray curl from her face. She could _not_ wait until her mother left. Then perhaps she would be able to have at least one full conversation with her husband-to-be.

Hearing a small snicker, Aoife lifted her head in time to catch a sideways glance from Earl Trancy. It was short-lived, but she could discern amusement behind those eyes. In her embarrassment, Aoife felt blood rush to her cheeks and looked away, off into the shade of the grove.

 _He is most definitely making fun of me. I know it,_ she huffed in her mind. _Thank you very much, Mother..._

A withered and powerless expression growing on her face, the Irish girl watched as her fiancé listened to her blathering mother, replying to the woman with such care and accuracy that Aoife thought that perhaps the earl was mistaken and planned to marry the madam instead of the young lady.

“Pardon me, Madam...” she passively heard the earl say.

Aoife clutched a pastry roughly between her fingers, examined it for a moment—its delicate, flaky layers, the powdery, snow-like sugar atop it—and stuffed it in her mouth. Her cheeks puffing out from the flavorful delicacy, Aoife murmured to herself, “Englishmen... Blasted, no good Englishmen—”

“Lady Gallagher?”

Aoife felt herself nearly choke as the earl finally addressed her. Clearing her throat, she croaked, “Yes, Earl Trancy?”

He smiled, tilting his head a bit, and leaned closer to her. In dazed surprise, Aoife found herself involuntarily moving away.

“It has just occurred to me that I know absolutely _nothing_ about you.”

Aoife blinked. _He... what?_

“Please,” he said cheerily, leaning his elbow on the table, “tell me about yourself.”

“Oh... Ah...” Aoife was quite taken aback by the earl’s abruptness. Yet, she felt a slight elation that he seemed to be actually trying to get to know her. She thought so, at least. “Well, I...” she began, feeling her cheeks turn pink.

“Oh, Earl Trancy! You will _never_ get my daughter to go on about herself,” Madame Gallagher interrupted again, waving a hand. “Here, let me—”

Aoife saw the earl twitch, watched his brow furrow and the smile disappear. She had the slight sense that he could snap at any moment. Feeling embarrassed and angered, Aoife placed her hands on the table and tensed her muscles in preparation to stand and shout.

Something touched her hand, halting her plan. Looking down, she saw Earl Trancy’s hand resting upon it. Her eyes widened as the young man spoke instead.

“Madame Gallagher. I do believe Claude mentioned to me before that he wished to... ah...” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Oh, for the life of me, I cannot remember exactly what he wanted. But I do know he wishes to speak with you. Alone.”

To Aoife’s surprise—and somewhat disgust—her mother blushed, her hazel eyes wide and twinkling. “Really?” she said airily.

The earl nodded. “Hurry now,” he chuckled, gesturing to Hannah to fill his teacup. “He is waiting inside.”

“Of course, of course,” the madam stood abruptly, primping her hair and brushing crumbs off of her skirt. With a sigh she waggled her fingers at her flabbergasted daughter and scampered off toward the mansion doors.

As soon as Aoife’s mother had disappeared into the shaded hallway—Aoife having stared wide-eyed at her the whole time—a long, audible breath seemed to escape from the earl’s chest. Aoife faced him, mouth still agape and slowly morphing into a wide grin.

A moment of silence—aside from the tinkling china of Earl Trancy adding cubes of sugar to his tea—ensued before Aoife shook her head slowly and said, “How did you do that? And why does Mr. Faustus want to see my mother?”

After a sip of tea, the earl beamed at his fiancée. “I have met many a woman like your mother,” he said with a slight laugh—though to Aoife it sounded strained. “And it seems she has taken a liking to my butler, so I took the opportunity to—well, to be blunt—to get rid of her.”

Aoife smirked. “A dirty trick, I must say...”

The earl shrugged and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs in a similar fashion as he had the day before. “Can you blame me? No one has interrupted or embarrassed you.” He swept a hand about the nearly-deserted patio, stopping it in a gesture toward Aoife. “We are alone and the floor is yours.”

Aoife looked down into her lap and gulped. He was right, they were alone. All of his attention was on her—no Madame Gallagher, no Claude. Just Aoife. But now that she had attained this solitude with her husband-to-be, what was she to do? Put up an act to make the earl fall for her? Act as she usually would around young men her age—which, back in Ireland where she thought of all the boys in the village as her brothers, involved plenty of snarky banter—and drive him away? She clenched her fists, feeling them start to sweat despite the chilly air, and wiped them on her dress. “Ah...” she began tentatively.

“Lady Gallagher?”

She looked up. He was right in front of her, his eyes sparkling in the sun as they met hers.

“I am listening to only you. Tell me about _you.”_

He was closer now. Ever so close. There was no mother to stop him now. No one to interrupt. (Well, there was Hannah, but from seeing her skittishness around her master, Aoife doubted the maid would do anything.) It was only Aoife. Only she and the earl, mere inches apart...

“Honestly, Earl Trancy, I would much rather like to know more about you,” Aoife spouted out quickly and rather loudly. An instant later she thought, _Good_ God _what have I done?_

Earl Trancy blinked, and a smirk piqued his lips. “Is that so?” he said, leaning back in his chair once more. “Very well, then, my dear.”

Aoife felt a shiver at _my dear_ and let out a breath she did not know she was holding in. When the full impact of what just happened hit her, she nearly kicked herself. _Are you seriously playing it safe, Aoife?! What is the matter with you?_

Lifting his teacup toward his fiancée, the earl said grandly, “Ask away. For you, I am an open book.” He finished with another bubbly laugh.

This pleased Aoife. For now, at least, she would not have to ramble on about her dull life. _He would not be interested, I am sure,_ she convinced herself, watching the earl fill his plate.

But now, she had a new dilemma. What exactly did she want to learn about Earl Trancy? He was, as he said, an open book just for her. The thought brought out an involuntary, girlish giddiness in her. In hindsight, though, she felt ashamed.

 _Play it safe, as I have so foolishly been doing?_ she wondered, _Or move forward and get more personal? What would Mother do?_ (The thought frightened her, frankly.) _Or even..._ She scowled, thankfully unnoticed by the earl, upon finishing her thought, _what would Bridget do?_

Briefly, Aoife shifted her eyes about the patio in search of the modest lump of a maid. _Must be inside, fawning over the triplets,_ she thought, as the woman was nowhere to be found.

At last, she gathered up what courage she had and addressed her fiancé. “Earl Trancy?”

He looked up, his one hand stirring his tea delicately with a spoon, and flashed his usual smile. “Yes, My Lady?”

“You must be quite busy, managing an entire company on your own and all,” Aoife said, adding a touch of awe to her voice.

“Claude assists me, usually; but yes, I can be very busy at times.”

“What exactly does your company do?” she asked, cocking her head.

He stopped stirring his tea, and he became as still as stone. The earl’s mouth opened and closed silently, and his brow furrowed a bit. He seemed... confused?

After a moment, his smile returned and he said a tad shakily, “Oh, a little of this, a touch of that... Trancy Co. has a hand in a bit of almost everything at the moment.”

He glanced away and sipped his tea, causing Aoife to question the legitimacy of his answer. Proceeding with caution, she asked, “‘Almost’ everything?”

Still mid-sip, Earl Trancy shot Aoife a quick glance, gulped down half his cup, cleared his throat and replied pleasantly, “Yes, well... Companies have been faltering lately, what with the supposed recession and all, and Cla—I mean, _I_ —buy them out in order for them to continue to thrive.”

Aoife nodded her understanding at the earl’s pause. She felt relieved, finding it superb that Trancy Co. did such a thing. Returning his cup to its saucer, Earl Trancy then said slowly, “However, there is one area of expertise which I have not delved into just yet.”

For some reason, Aoife sensed the tone in his voice tighten—losing its boyishness, somewhat—to the point that it sounded almost sinister. Perhaps it was just her imagination.

With the sweetest smile, Earl Trancy leaned on his elbow again and said, “You see, I have always wanted to get into the toy business, like our dear friend Phantomhive...”

* * *

 

_~Lesson No.2~_

_Hold out a chair for a lady. Likewise, push it in beneath her as she sits._

 

* * *

 

“Please explain to me, Your Highness...”

Alois groaned, knowing what was coming. As Claude adjusted his jacket—the collar had gone askew—he rolled his eyes away from meeting the butler’s golden gaze.

With a sharp tug on the collar, Claude continued, “What in the _hell_ happened on the patio this morning?”

The earl sighed, clamping his hands on his hips, and shrugged. “I honestly have no idea why you are making a fuss about this. It went perfectly.”

“Perfectly?” Claude repeated the word bluntly. _“Perfectly?_ You believe that sitting _alone_ with your betrothed and having her play a questions game with you is a _perfect_ way to progress your ‘wooing’ of her?”

Alois replied nonchalantly, “Yes. Why not? We were chatting, just like you wanted...”

Claude pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. “You barely gave her any time to speak, at all. Also, you were supposed to learn more about _her,_ so you may _woo_ her, not the other way around. And also,” Alois had opened his mouth to speak, but Claude spoke over him, much to the young earl’s chagrin, “what did I say about mentioning Phantomhive?”

Alois pursed his lips, pouting like a child. “To _not_ mention Phantomhive,” he mumbled.

Claude bent to his master’s height. He was getting pretty sick and tired of this young man’s slip-ups. Though, this next lesson was an easy one—even _he_ could not possibly mess it up. “Too right,” he said quietly. “Now, I do not want to hear you speak foully of _him_ again. Understood?”

“Yes, yes,” Alois waved a hand and made his way to the dining room, where he and his fiancée would be dining together. Alone.

“One more thing, Master,” Claude droned, sounding awfully tired. “ _Never_ set Madame Gallagher on me again. These guests are _yours_ to deal with, not your butler’s.”

Away from his butler’s view, Alois’s mouth grew to a wobbly, giggle-repressing smirk.

* * *

 

“Ah... Earl Trancy?”

He did not seem to hear her. Rather, he bit down on another large forkful of... whatever it was he had on his plate. Aoife honestly could not see; the earl was sitting so far from her.

The dining room was a large, open, intricately decorated room of a similar color palette as the front foyer. Everywhere she turned, flecks of gold danced in her vision, either flickering from the candlelight or from their own internal shine. The dining table at its center was equally large, spanning most of the room’s length. At one end, Aoife sat with her back against a soft, cushioned chair.

Dabbing at her mouth with a deep red, linen napkin, Aoife tried hiding her trembling mouth—suppressing her laughter. The setup this evening was actually comical, she had to admit.

At the opposite end of the table—what Aoife estimated to be nearly fifty meters away—sat Earl Trancy, out of proper eyeshot and, apparently, earshot.

 _How on Earth do the English eat this way?_ she wondered in disbelief. _Do they even talk at meals?_

For a moment, her hands ran the length of the arms of her chair. A smile touched her lips as she remembered the earl’s entrance.

She had been aimlessly wandering about the room, peering at the portraits and flower-filled vases. At the sound of footsteps, she turned, and her fiancé alone had entered.

At the question concerning the whereabouts of her mother, Earl Trancy had said that the madam would be dining with Marchioness Midford and had taken Bridget with her, to the shock of the Irish girl.

And so, simmering over the flightiness of her mother, Aoife was surprised when she was seated by her fiancé. Gently, he had pushed the chair in behind her—the epitome of gentlemanliness. Brightening up, she had beamed up at him—warmly, she hoped—thanked him, and had professed a small chuckle when the earl raised his eyebrows and stalked away. From behind, she could see the side of his cheek turn pink.

Now, after the food had been served—which was absolutely _divine_ —the two ate in silence. The previous day’s dinnertime had been loud and boisterous due to the presence of Madame Gallagher... But now...

Aoife cleared her throat and rose a little bit in her chair. “Earl Trancy!” she called across the room, hearing the reverberations bounce around the high ceiling.

This time, Earl Trancy looked up. After a sip of wine, he responded in the same loud voice, “Yes, Lady Gallagher?”

“This is... an awfully long table,” she hinted with a laugh, hoping he would decide to sit closer.

Earl Trancy nodded, slightly confused. “Yes, I suppose it is. Is there something wrong? Is the food not to your liking?”

“Sorry, what?” Aoife called. “I cannot quite hear you!”

“The food! Is it to your liking?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, it quite is...” she said, dejected.

Silence intruded once again, and the only sounds were the clinking of plates and silverware. Claude entered from a side door and refilled their wine. As he walked the length of the table, Aoife spoke once more. “Earl Trancy, is there possibly a way to sit closer together? Forgive me, but this distance is unbearable!”

Both Earl Trancy and Claude looked at her. They exchanged glances. What was to happen next was definitely not anything this young Irish lady expected.

* * *

 

If Aoife had had to contain her laughter before, she needed both hands to do so now. Looking up from her half-filled plate, she stared directly into the pale blue discs of her fiancé’s eyes, a mere meter-and-a-half (maybe even less) before her. He caught her gaze, smiled grandly, and continued with his dessert.

The new table was, in stark contrast, a short side table Earl Trancy had demanded be brought from the library. Off to the side of the large dining room table, the library table had been placed right in the light of one of the large windows. In this light, candlelight was not needed, and Aoife could not help but be grateful. Earl Trancy seemed to glow with the dull blue, twilit aura of night. His blond hair was accented silver, his skin shone even paler than usual—it resembled a pearly white—and his eyes sparkled brilliantly like diamonds.

Glancing up again, the earl caught Aoife staring at him. “Is something _else_ wrong?” he asked with a quick chuckle.

Aoife straightened up with a start and shook her head. Once the earl’s attention was back on his plate, Aoife’s gaze drifted once more to his slight frame. He really was a nice-looking young man, Aoife had to confess. Slightly effeminate, but ‘manly-men’ had always put her off. Too... _gruff_ for her... And as far as she could tell, these Englishmen—Earl Trancy included—were not exactly ‘manly-men’—a fact to which she was much obliged, really.

A smile crept onto her lips, and before she could hide it, Earl Trancy’s fork clattered to his plate and he said, “Alright, Lady Gallagher, why are you smiling?”

“Sorry?” Aoife tried keeping the giggle from her voice, but failed.

“Do not lie to me, My Lady.” There was a playful tone to his voice, and Aoife could make out a slightly drunken grin growing on his face now ( _The wine,_ she thought, eyeing the goblet by his plate). “Something is amusing you, and I wish to know what it is.”

“Do you, now?” Aoife said in an equally lighthearted tone and lifted her own wine goblet to her lips, only to find it empty. Common sense struck her, and she decided against asking Claude to refill her cup.

“I do, indeed,” the earl said lowly, leaning his folded arms on the table and moving further into the light of the window. Beneath the table, Aoife felt his knee brush up against hers. She immediately flinched, flushing a bright red, and Earl Trancy laughed.

“Now, is that from the wine, or are you honestly this green?” he mused, gesturing to her colored face. “Ah... red, I mean,” he corrected with another look at her. He swirled the remaining wine around in his cup and raised a brow, waiting for a response.

Aoife blinked. Had he insulted her? No, she must be tired. Or _he_ must be tired. He would never... Would he? Brushing the suspicion from her clouded mind, she replied, “When I said I wanted to sit closer together, I did not have this in mind, I must say.” She motioned to the quaint table between them.

“Oh?” Earl Trancy leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, pointing one polished boot in the window’s light and admiring its shine.

“We could have stayed at the other table, if you so liked, Earl Trancy.”

The earl pursed his lips, staring at the swirling, bloodred liquid in his cup. “It seems I have messed up yet again,” he said almost inaudibly.

Aoife’s brow creased. “Sorry? I did not catch that...”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, downing the last of his wine and placing the cup on the table. “I am just tired, is all.”

“Ah,” Aoife agreed, “As am I. It has been a rather long day.”

The earl stared at his plate, and Aoife noticed his eyes were more black now than blue—his pupils seemed to be heavily dilated, for some reason. Or, perhaps, it was merely the lighting.

“Beautiful night,” she offered, hoping to spark a conversation. It truly was, after all.

“Mmph,” Earl Trancy murmured, removing his eyes from the plate.

For several minutes, the two sat in silence, staring out of the window at the now-totally-darkened sky. Aoife felt a sort of serenity, sitting with him like this. Not needing to talk. It was... nice. Stealing a glance at the earl, she felt her heart skip a beat at the peaceful expression on his face: leaning on his hand, a natural, almost penitent smile on his lips and a heavy-lidded, heavily-lashed gaze looking off toward the half-moon hovering in the sky. She wondered if this was, in fact, the earl’s _real_ smile.

 _Maybe he is not mad. Maybe he is simply..._ she pondered, trying to find the right word. She pursed her lips and cocked her head.

_Childlike...?_

Suddenly, a fleeting shudder ran across Earl Trancy’s shoulders. The next moment, he was flashing his brilliant smile again—the handsome, gentlemanly one from before—and was rising from his chair. “Well then,” he said, clasping his hands before him, “I believe I shall turn in for the night. Shall I walk you to your room, My Lady?”

Aoife exhaled, her shoulders drooping. She did not want the night to end. She did not want the earl to lose that natural smile. But also, she did not want to cause trouble. She needed to play along, keep to the formal, and persevere for her real goal.

Rising as well, she hooked her arm in his and the two slowly exited the dining room, into the hall, and past the servants lined against the wall. As they proceeded, Aoife nodded to each and thanked them for the lovely dinner. She bowed her head especially low to Hannah, whom she had taken a liking to.

The last one the two passed by was Claude, who stared at them with a scrutinizing eye. With a flick of his free hand, Alois nonchalantly brushed his hair out of his eyes.

Bringing down that same hand, he tucked it behind his back and sent his butler an inconspicuous thumbs-up.

Claude had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

* * *

 

_~Lesson No.3~_

_Compliments and flattery are key when trying to win a lady’s heart._

 

* * *

 

Interlacing his fingers, Alois stretched his hands—palms away—and cracked his knuckles. Accompanying this action with a twisted grin, he practically laughed, “Flatter the wench? Ha! Too easy.”

Claude let out a long, slow breath. He just felt... tired. Once—just once—Claude wished for his master to progress in his conquest of the Irish lady’s heart. (If it could even be _called_ a conquest...) He only hoped the earl’s “natural flirtatiousness” would give him a leg up.

“Master,” the butler said, gripping the young man’s shoulders firmly, “I implore you. This just may be your best chance in assuring Lady Gallagher’s stay; your best chance at finally getting Phantomhive.” Claude stared at him, eyes wide. He looked surprisingly desperate, Alois absently supposed, though the demon’s voice neither quavered nor heightened in pitch. It was just evident in those glinting, hungry eyes.

Alois shook Claude off of his shoulders and backed away. “I will not let this chance pass by,” he spoke slowly, seriously, reassuringly. He then turned and walked with prestige, heading in the direction of Lady Gallagher’s room, where Hannah had mentioned the young lady would be trying on the new gowns her mother had bought on her little London escapade with Marchioness Midford. _Perfect. What better time to compliment both daughter and mother?_

Waving a hand toward his butler, Alois offered a final point of assurance. “Relax, Claude. This is my specialty.” With the still-raised hand, he flipped his hair and, losing his balance, stumbled a bit over his own feet.

The farther the earl strode after that, the more Claude felt a horrible sinking feeling in his ever-hungry gut.

* * *

 

“Oh, for goodness sake, Bridget, would you _please_ loosen this Godforsaken contraption?” Aoife bent her arms behind her back, her fingers twitchily reaching for the laces of her brand new corset.

Hearing a soft snicker, she whirled around on the maid, her freckled face scarlet. “Quit sniggering and help me! I am still unhappy with your disappearance the other day, so try to be less... well, you.”

Bridget seemed to shrink a little. Laying Aoife’s emerald dress on the bed, she said, “I had gotten lost. This mansion is quite the maze...”

As Bridget pulled at the laces, Aoife held the floridly stitched body of the corset and replied in a strained tone, “Lost, were you? And just who found you, then? Thompson or Timber?”

There was a sharp tug at the corset, and Aoife gave a garbled yelp. Under her breath, she hissed, “You call that loose...?”

“Hannah found me, actually,” Bridget said softly, ignoring her mistress’s jeer. Tying the ends of the laces and patting smooth the bodice of Aoife’s undergarments, she murmured, “Done,” and stalked off to fold Aoife’s underskirt. (Currently, Aoife wore a new silk one her mother had purchased by recommendation of the marchioness.)

“Ah,” Aoife said, awkwardly eyeing the floor between them.

Moments passed in silence, during which Aoife stared at her reflection in the floor-length mirror Hannah had brought earlier (Apparently it had been in Earl Trancy’s room...?). It was odd, staring at her slim figure that was not laden down by layers of fabric. Holding her hair in a mass of curls above her head, she turned, drinking in the inward bow of her waist, the pale, freckle-tinged beige of her bare shoulders, the shimmering, champagne color of her flowing underskirt as it hid her knobbly knees. It all seemed so... natural. Letting the orange wave of hair bounce down her torso again, Aoife heaved a sigh, dully imagining the frilly, froufrou gowns her mother was sure to bring in.

“Where is she?” she wondered aloud.

“Who, your mother?” Bridget inquired.

“No, the Queen of England, Bridget. _Yes,_ Mother.”

There was a pause, after which Bridget said, “I believe she is still unloading your new dresses from the carriage outside.”

“Oh, good God,” Aoife sighed, collapsing onto the stool at the end of her bed and covering her face with a throwpillow. “I can barely breathe in this corset,” her muffled voice whined, “and she makes me wait this long. ‘Get used to it,’ she said. ‘All the English ladies wear them,’ she said. Well _poppycock,_ I say.”

“Stand please, Lady Aoife...” Bridget sighed. “Your underskirt will wrinkle.”

“Who cares?” Aoife threw up an arm and let it flop to her side.

“Earl Trancy will, I am sure.”

Aoife removed the pillow from her face and threw her maid a glare, making her wince. “I did not think you cared,” she said cautiously.

Bridget’s gaze circled the room, and her mouth opened and closed like that of a fish. When she finally spoke, she said, “Well, after these few days, he seems to be...” She trailed off.

“Yes?” Aoife stood, for once interested in her maid’s opinion.

“He...” Bridget began again, but her brow furrowed in deep thought, and she grew silent.

Before Aoife could urge her further, a knock sounded at the bedroom door and Aoife, expecting her boisterous mother and Hannah, called absently over her shoulder, “Come in.”

“Now, Bridget. What were you saying?” Aoife asked, clasping the maid’s forearms. “Come now, Bridget, be a dear and tell me.”

Behind Aoife, the door clicked and swung open. Inwardly bracing herself for the onslaught of lace and satin, it took the young lady a few moments to take in the horrified look on Bridget’s face.

“What is it, Bridget?” she asked, turning and wondering if her mother had chosen an especially ugly gown that even the maid would reject.

But there was no dress. No mother. No Hannah. Sauntering in through the door, the brilliantly fixed and pleasant smile beaming bright as always on his cherub-like face, was Earl Trancy.

Aoife stood rooted to the spot, barely conscious of Bridget’s shaky whimpers as she tried to express her disapproval, and stared. After a moment, she forgot her maid was even there. It was only the she and the earl in this extravagant room, transfixed on each other; he in his usual, casual façade—she in her _heavily-_ revealing undergarments. She did not even have time to blush before the earl spoke.

“Good afternoon, My Lady,” he went on as he usually did each day, as if nothing was out of sorts. Suddenly his eyes widened, a hand went to his chest, and his gaze ran the whole length of his fiancée. “My, my, Lady Gallagher…”

Though her entire body burned with embarrassment—was that what it was?—her insides felt extremely cold and dry. She could not speak a single, astonished word (and her maid was no better, the poor thing…).

He strode farther into the room, to which Bridget’s gasping murmurs quickened in speed, and he said smoothly, “I must say, my dear, you have the loveliest figure…”

Aoife blinked and spoke for the first time, “S-sorry?”

She was cut off by the earl presently looking about the room and saying, “Now, where _is_ your mother? Run off, has she? Tut tut… Did she shed sudden tears at the sight of her _ravishing_ daughter in her _exquisite_ new dress?”

Aoife looked down and involuntarily tugged at the lacy edges of her undergarments. _Dress…? Has he been at the wine again...?_

He took another step and, holding up an arm, pointed to floor and spun his finger in a circle. “Could you...? If you do not mind...”

He sounded—what?—eager? There was a lightness to his voice that she could not place. Was he poking fun at her or was he just honestly this naïve? Still somewhat dumbfounded, she slowly twirled on the spot, never really taking her eyes off of the earl.

As she spun, feeling a breeze as her hair and skirt flew out around her, she heard a gasp and several loud claps.

“Splendid,” the earl crooned in an admiring, candid tone. “Simply splendid, My Lady.”

Aoife looked to Bridget, noting that though her face had flushed to the hue of a ripened tomato, the hopeless maid’s own face had gone deathly white.

“Well,” the earl said, clapping his hands once. “I hope to see you at dinner this evening in an even _more_ glorious gown, Lady Gallagher!” He swiveled on his heel and skipped out the door, waving a hand and trilling a short, “Ta!”

Aoife stood there in shock, arms limp at her sides and jaw dropped. Had that... really just happened?

“Lady Aoife!” Bridget squeaked at last and shakily threw a robe over her mistress’s goosebump-enshrouded shoulders. The thin fabric barely made it on the ginger girl though, as she darted across the room after her fiancée.

* * *

 

“Earl Trancy!”

Alois turned, still basking in the glory of his own accomplishment, and saw the wench out in the hallway in her God-awful new dress. What had her mother been thinking, honestly?

But he wondered what she wanted now. He was quite in a rush to tell Claude of his victory. He was just a bit further down the hall...

“Yes, My Lady?” he beamed, admitting silently to himself that she _did_ have a charming curve to her form— _that_ much he would give her.

The wench stopped at the opened door, pulling her recently-acquired robe over her arms and still retaining her speckled, strawberry-red face.

“Thank you!” she called. “Thank you...”

Alois bowed in order to hide his satisfied, twisted grin. “Anytime, my dear.”

With one more shared smile, Lady Gallagher retreated to her room and Alois flipped about to scuttle off to Claude. Upon passing the butler’s gaping face in the hall (he had stood watching the previous scene with wide eyes), Alois held his hands behind his head and winked, “Like I said, Claude. Too easy.”

There was the familiar smacking noise as Claude’s glove met his forehead, he being too flabbergasted to downtrod on the earl’s delight.

* * *

 

_~Lesson No.4~_

_Swear words mar a lady’s delicate ears. Eliminate them from your daily vocabulary and use the Queen’s English._

 

* * *

 

“This is stupid, Claude,” Alois hissed at his lurking shadow of a butler, skulking along the hall in his clicking heels, the sound of which reverberated along the sunshine-filled corridor like a harsh, unforgiving metronome.

It had been two days since the incident in the wench’s room, and Alois had barely seen his fiancée in that time (she had gone off gallivanting in London with her mother—something about how her mother’s dress selections had been less than satisfactory—and the only time they saw each other was at mealtimes). He found nothing wrong with this, but his butler believed that he should get a move on now that they had ended their London outings.

Alois sighed. “This lesson. Honestly, how in _hell_ am I going to find it useful?”

Claude’s face, in its usual deadpan stare, twitched as he followed noiselessly behind the indifferent young man. “It is less of a practicable lesson than a prompt to _drastically change your current, brutish lifestyle.”_ He emphasized the last phrase, leaning toward the earl’s ear and speaking through clenched teeth.

Alois scoffed and stretched his arms behind his head, never breaking his stride on his way to the library. “Bollocks is what it is,” he said with a smirk.

He felt a sharp rap to the side of his head and yelped in surprise and pain. Whirling around on Claude, he cried, “What the hell was _that_ for, now?!”

The butler, stoic yet seeming a bit cheerier now, tugged on the edge of his glove, readjusting after its contact with the side of the earl’s short blond head. _“That_ is _precisely_ what I am talking about, _Your Highness._ Do not let me hear such language come out of your _royal_ little mouth again.” He pointed a finger at Alois’s scowling face and added, “ _Especially_ in front of Lady Gallagher.”

Massaging the side of his head, Alois gave Claude a steely gaze and spat out, “Fine.” He started walking again, but paused after a few paces and said enthusiastically, “No _bloody_ promises, though!”

Before Claude could whack him again, Alois scampered down the hall and made the nearest right, creating as much distance between him and Claude as possible and laughing the whole way. _And I thought this plan would not be fun,_ he thought, panting and looking over his shoulder for any sign of the spidery man.

It was then that he ran head-long into something—or someone, as it was too soft to be a wall. There was a feminine-sounding cry, then the loud shattering noise of delicate china dishes crashing to pieces on the marble floor.

Landing on his bum with a _whump_ , Alois shook his head and looked up to—unwillingly—apologize. He shut his mouth, though, and felt a prickle up his spine at the sight of Hannah, sprawled out on the floor and bleeding from a deep cut on her hand.

Realization struck the maid, draining the color from her face. Glancing down at the destroyed china, then to her master, she was silent, her mouth fluttering open and closed and trying to form words.

Slowly—ever so slowly—Alois rose to his feet, brushing off his shorts and not looking at the crumpled maid on the floor. As he did so, Hannah held her bleeding hand—so tightly that blood seeped through her fingers—and stuttered several tearful, pleading apologies.

“I-I will clean it, Master. Forgive me,” she spoke softly as tears began to fall.

Alois approached the blubbering maid step by step, one loud metronome click after another—the tempo of the steps resembling that of a funeral march. As he stood above her, feeling once more superior in front of his servant, he planted his hands on his hips and fixed a look of malevolent disgust on his young face.

Inside though, he felt exuberant. For the first time in days, he could drop the act—blow off steam—let go. He lifted his foot and brought it down forcefully on the maid’s thigh, eliciting a pained cry from her.

With an inward grin he thought, _Today just keeps getting better and better._

* * *

 

“Lady Aoife!” Bridget panted, jogging along behind her mistress. With strain in her voice she called, “We were told to meet Earl Trancy in the library!”

Midstride, Aoife scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Stow it, Bridget. You heard that crash as well as I. Something is wrong and someone might be hurt.” Her expression deadpanned as she added, “It would not surprise me if Mother was the cause...”

Bridget whimpered, struggling to keep pace with the determined young lady. “I just think that—”

The sound of distant shouting halted the two women in their tracks. Aoife threw a brief, wide-eyed glance to her maid, and with silent understanding, the two shot down the corridors, skidding at some corners yet never breaking their speed.

 _Who on earth could be shouting so?_ she thought. Claude came to mind, but Aoife shook away the notion. How could someone so calm become so enraged?

As they drew closer, Aoife could make out some of the words that echoed through the halls. It took her a few moments to fully understand what she was hearing, and once she did, she broke into a sprint.

“You stupid bitch!”

Aoife nearly tripped, but kept moving.

 “Goddamn _whore!_ You nearly _killed me!”_

What was happening? Aoife shook her head. The earl was... well, he sounded well beyond enraged. He barely sounded like himself at all—his light, eloquent tone had turned harsh and screeching, like that of a cackling witch straight out of old fairy tales.

Perhaps she was hearing him wrong...

“Why can’t you watch where you’re going, you bloody tramp!?”

In hindsight, Aoife realized that she should have taken that advice, because one turn in the corridor later, she was— _once again_ —face-to-face with Earl Trancy.

Well, sort of. His back was to her, and he stood above the violet form that was Hannah, clutching a scarlet hand and weeping. The maid noticed Aoife and Bridget first, and her eyes widened.

Aoife wanted to shout out, to offer help to the woman, but could not make a sound. The earl still had no idea they were there.

“Oh, what now?” Earl Trancy shouted, his voice rough and sarcastic. He planted his hands on his hips and said, “Has Claude come to your rescue, you little bi—”

He had turned. The maniacal grin that was on his face instantly melted away, and he held out the final syllable of his sentence, searching wide-eyed for words that could save him.

“Bi... beautiful... lovely... maid,” he settled on, his tone growing more caring with every word. He turned to Hannah again. “My goodness, you must have taken quite a fall, Hannah! Here, let me help you. What tricky stairs... I should have Claude take a look at them...”

Aoife shared a glance with Bridget, and before rushing over to help, they both silently agreed that no one—especially Madame Gallagher—was to know of what they had heard.

* * *

 

_~Lesson No.5~_

_Hold the door open for a lady whenever she wishes to enter or leave a room._

 

* * *

 

Alois sat in one of the study’s armchairs, absently thumbing through that morning’s newspaper and bouncing the ball of his foot on the floor in a twitchy sort of impatience. All the while, he eyed Lady Gallagher, sitting in the chair next to his own and reading a novel with a content smile.

He shifted in his seat, narrowing his eyes as Hannah—with her bandaged hand—passed through his vision to place a cup of tea on the table before him. He had half a mind to trip her, but thought against it once noting the smile and soft “Thank you” Lady Gallagher gave her. He sighed.

They had been there for hours. _Hours._ Alois could only read the same newspaper so many times...

 _Come now,_ he directed a thought at her. _You must be tired of this, by now. Do you not have better things to do other than read for incessant amounts of time?!_ His impatience grew—as did the frequency of his twitching knee—and he let his mind wander.

His thoughts drifted to the previous day. Claude... had not exactly been happy with his little stunt. How the damn butler found out, he had no idea, but Alois assured him several times that it had not been his fault. Honestly, the bitch had it coming. Running about with stacks of delicate dishes... Stupid, stupid woman. Nearly killed him. Nearly made the wench think badly of him. _She knows nothing, though,_ Alois assured himself. _I covered it well. Hannah fell down the stairs; that is all._

“You seem bored, Earl Trancy.”

He glanced up, taking on a surprised yet contrite expression. “Do I really?” he asked sheepishly.

There was a light _thud_ as Lady Gallagher shut her book ( _his_ book, really). “Well,” she glanced at the paper in his hands, “You have been reading the same three pages for about an hour.”

“Have I?” the earl chuckled. “How observant...” _Nosey wench._

“You know, Earl Trancy...” There was a pause as she swiveled to face him. “You do not have to sit with me for all these hours if you do not want to. I... know I am not as chatty as Mother, but—”

“No, no,” Alois raised a hand and shook his head. “It is perfectly alright. These hours of silence—” His tone seemed to dampen. “—have been quite... tranquil.” He folded the newspaper and leaned forward. “I am a restless person, My Lady. Forgive me if it shows.”

After a moment, Lady Gallagher nodded and continued her reading, throwing a final, smirking glance up at him before doing so.

Alois felt himself pout and sink a bit in his chair, growing more anxious by the second. He thought of Claude again and recalled, to his dismay, just how much trouble he was in with the looming butler. Earlier in the day, just after breakfast, where Madame Gallagher had announced that she would be leaving the next day to stay at Phantomhive Manor—Alois had nearly choked on his tea upon hearing this—Claude had pulled him out of earshot of the Irishwomen and had given him a thorough yet audibly subdued lashing out.

“You do realize that _this_ is your final chance, do you not?”

Alois grinded his teeth, remembering.

“This entire week you have floundered and have barely been able to keep your hold on them.”

Alois whipped open his newspaper and flipped to the obituary section, direly needing entertainment.

“These ladies are hanging on by a thread. One slip-up on your part, Master, and they will be as good as gone. They as well as Phantomhive.”

_Ah, brutal murder in Dufftown. Quiet place. Been there once. Lovely taffy._

“Do not disappoint me, Your Highness.”

_Perhaps I should take a holiday there. Ooh, if this one’s a serial killer then perhaps Ciel will be called in... How quaint._

“This time, for Luca’s sake.”

_Thud._

Alois bent the top of his newspaper down to see Lady Gallagher rising from her chair, the book closed in her hand.

“Taking a break, are we, Lady Gallagher?” He smiled, looking from her to the door and hoping he would have enough time to beat her to it, if need be.

“I finished this one,” she said, brandishing the novel in one hand while smoothing her dress—one of her new ones, Alois noted—with the other. “I think I shall pop into the library once more this afternoon and get another one. Hannah,” she addressed the maid, “could you guide me there? I am still quite lost in this place.” She laughed lightly—a sound like tinkling wind chimes—and moved toward the door with Hannah following behind her.

 _Damn,_ Alois thought, bolting up from his seat and scampering noiselessly after them. He was at a disadvantage, as the door was nearer Lady Gallagher’s side of the room. He should have thought that over more, seeing as he knew which of Claude’s “lessons” he had been told to execute that day.

Shoving past Hannah, Alois casually slipped in front of Lady Gallagher and, just as the young lady was reaching for it, gripped the crystal doorknob in his hand. His sudden appearance gave her a start, and with his back pressed against the wood of the door, Alois found himself—once again—in startlingly close proximity to her.

“Oh!” she gasped, nearly bumping into the earl and dropping her book in the process.

Quickly, and with a short laugh, Alois bent down and swiped the novel from the floor. He held it in front of him, his hand still on the doorknob, and said, “Ah. Here... here you go.”

She did not take the book from him. At least, not at first. She just sort of... stared at him. Eyes wide, mouth agape, cheeks flushed, still as stone. _Women. Strange as all Hell..._ Alois thought.

 He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the sad form of Hannah behind his fiancée, and tried again, swearing in his mind as he heard his voice crack, “You dropped this... My Lady...”

He looked away, seconds later feeling the book slip out of his fingers. “Thank you,” he heard her say.

“Not at all,” he fixed a grin, flourishing the door open and allowing for the two ladies to slip out. Once they had passed, and the last lacy dress fold had brushed over Alois’s boots, he swung the door shut and collapsed back into his armchair, groaning and calling for Claude to bring a shot of brandy for his tea.

* * *

 

“How is your hand, Miss Hannah?” Aoife asked.

The maid, walking beside her, gave a pained glance to her bandaged hand, then gave the softest of smiles.

“It is fine. Thank you, My Lady.”

“Good. That must have been a nasty fall...” she slipped a side-glance at Hannah, waiting for the slightest of reaction that may enlighten her on Earl Trancy. “Down a flight of stairs, was it? And with all those dishes?”

Hannah’s hands, held in front of her, tensed. “Yes...”

“Well, I am glad to see that you are alright, Miss Hannah.”

“Just ‘Hannah,’ please.”

“Alright. Hannah, then.” Aoife offered a smile, to which Hannah only returned an open, sad expression before looking away.

They walked in silence, side by side, Aoife not letting the maid walk in front of slip behind for fear of missing even a single nuance of emotion from her. Truth be told, Aoife wanted to know more about this strange earl. And what better way to get into the mind of a man than through his servants?

“How long have you worked here, Hannah?” Aoife inquired, trying to keep a friendly tone.

The maid looked down. “Several years.”

“And you like it here, I hope?”

“Of course,” she said in a voice that sounded sincere. “Earl Trancy is a good master.”

Aoife pursed her lips. The maid’s answer did not entirely match yesterday’s events...

“He seems...” Aoife began, noticing Hannah eyeing her, “interesting.”

Hannah made a short sound that Aoife could have sworn was a chuckle.

“Interesting?” the maid asked.

“Yes,” Aoife nodded, sure that it was the right word. Furrowing her brow, she said, “He has the strangest quirks.”

“I apologize.”

“Sorry?”

“My master’s behavior.” Hannah’s voice was strained, sad, remorseful. “It is outlandish. I deeply apologize for everything—”

“Woah, hold on,” Aoife said, halting and reaching out a hand to stop Hannah, as well. “He has done nothing to me. I am perfectly fine, see?” She smiled up at the maid, hoping to brighten her mood at least a little bit.

“Hannah,” she continued gently, looking the maid in her pale, single eye, “Earl Trancy is the man I am bound to marry. No matter what sort of man he is, I want to learn and understand all I can about him. No masks, no façades. And from these past few days, honestly, that is all I have been getting. I am not done here, Hannah. No amount of trickery or fine wine can change that.”

Hannah opened her mouth to speak, but Aoife held up a finger.

“I am not doing this for me. Nor for him. Please understand that. The Queen chose us to bring our two nations together, or at least to begin a movement toward such. Whether something will develop from that, I know not. Just know that I have no intention to judge your master. My feelings have no say in the matter, though I honestly do wish to make the best of this situation.”

With that, she continued her stride to the library. She stopped though, as Hannah had not followed suit. The maid, she saw, was staring after her, a strange—hopeful?—expression on her face. With a smirk she continued walking.

“Hannah?” she called, not turning around.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“What I said before, about Earl Trancy being ‘interesting’?”

“Yes?”

Aoife’s smirk grew as she threw over her shoulder, “Who ever said that was a _bad_ thing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aoife. Aoife darling. You must be insane. He was just a major dicklord to his maid. You're just gonna--  
> ...  
> I mean yes you're a major dicklord to your own maid sometimes but ...
> 
> Aoife's weird, guys. 
> 
> \--Kiiro


	8. Balconies, Ballads & Ballroom Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the author is a try-hard, Alois becomes simultaneously less and more of a little shit, and there's a lot of talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going back in time for this:
> 
> [The first song was written by me, just for this story, so NO STEALING OR I WILL HAVE TO EAT YOU. (It's the über-long one & the tune goes something like the "If Only" song from the movie/novel Holes)]
> 
> Christ on a bike high school was a weird time.
> 
> \--Kiiro

_There was never a scabby sheep in a flock that didn't like to have a comrade._

_\--Irish Saying_

“Oh, dearie,” came the first whimpering sob.

“Good-bye, Mother.”

“You will miss your mummy, will you not?”

“Get in the carriage, Mother.”

“Aoife, why do you neglect me so? Do you want to see me leave? Leave and never return?”

Finally pushing Madame Gallagher off of her, Aoife said, “Goodness gracious, Mother. You will only be a few miles away.”

“But,” the woman sobbed, pausing to blow her nose into a handkerchief, “That is so far!”

“It is not, now go on!” Aoife pointed out the front door of the foyer, laughing.

The triplets appeared then, their faces as stoic as ever, and escorted Madame Gallagher out the door, one at each of her arms and one trailing behind carrying three of the woman’s suitcases with surprising ease. As the procession moved forward, Aoife heard the echoing sobs continue, accompanied by soft, consoling murmurs of “There, there,” from the three identical men. Aoife shook her head, finding it comical, and followed after them.

Just before stepping out into the morning light, though, she cast a glance back into the shady, strangely-glinting foyer and up the staircase at the young earl lurking atop it—chatting to Claude, it looked like. It was a stark contrast, the interior of this place to the exterior. The manor did not exactly fit into the scene of the early-autumn warmth she felt outside. With a strained feeling in her gut, Aoife felt that this difference applied not just to the mansion...

 

* * *

 

Alois could barely contain his excitement as he watched the wench’s mother leave. Atop the staircase, picking at his nails and scuffing the bottom of his shoe along the floor, he sat precariously on the balustrade, legs crossed and face cheerful.

“It really is lovely, Claude, is it not?” he asked, watching his fiancée as she strode out the front doors. He smiled, feeling utterly giddy at the thought of having to entertain one less woman. The moment the portly woman left, he would be able to breathe—and he could not wait.

Behind the young earl stood Claude, blank as per usual and bracing himself for his master’s newest bout of drivel. In response to Alois though, he merely grunted a vague, “Mmph.”

Alois’s lips trembled, and he burst into laughter, leaning back on his perch and kicking his feet over to the other side, allowing them to dangle dangerously above the foyer floor. Claude narrowed his eyes, contemplating whether or not to stop the foolish adolescent...

“It is more than lovely; it is spectacular!” Alois cackled. “You should be happier than me, really—the wench’s mother seemed to fancy you, eh? Well you need not worry about her anymore. She is officially gone!”

“One less guest in the manor does not give you reason to revert to your old ways, Master,” Claude reminded him, eyeing the distance between he and Alois, calculating how long it would take to catch him if the young man were to fall... “Remember that Lady Gallagher has to fancy _you._ ”

Alois scoffed, rolling his eyes and waving a hand. “Yes, yes. But think of how much _easier_ things will be now that I need only satisfy _her._ _So_ much less effort.” Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, he closed his heavily-lashed lids, relishing the tranquility he was sure to acquire without the clucking hen of a mother-in-law to deal with. He twitched at the thought, though. Madame Gallagher as his mother-in-law... He had not thought of the concept till now, and it truly scared the daylights out of him. He shook his head.

“We still have a few tricks up our sleeves, Claude,” he piped, turning and bringing a leg up on the railing. Leaning an elbow on his bent knee, he continued suavely, “And I am completely positive that little _Lady Gallagher_ will not be able to resist them, would you not agree?”

Claude stared at him. _Tricks,_ he thought coldly. _As though this was all a game. A nonsensical fairy tale._ He let out a sigh. Was his master even trying? Honestly.

“I could not agree more, Your Highness,” the butler drawled, lacing each syllable with derisive intent.

His master, though, sensed nothing amiss and grinned, pleased with his servant’s supportive answer. As Alois looked out of a nearby window, relishing his circumstances, Claude rolled his eyes, sneering.

With a glance to the front doors, he said, “Master, go bid the madam farewell.”

As the young earl scoffed and hopped down, whining the whole way, Claude felt a sort of primeval pulse in his gut, and wondered to himself why he had not taken the initiative to kick the brutish brat off the balustrade and watch him fall helplessly to the floor below. He grinned, finding the mere thought to be a slight comfort.

 

* * *

 

 

Meandering in no direction in particular, Elizabeth went about the halls of the Phantomhive mansion, humming to herself and grinning. It really was such a lovely day, after all, and the prospect of Madame Gallagher’s arrival had her in high spirits.

“Good morning, Sebastian!” she piped, spotting the butler down a side corridor and waving.

Hands occupied with the odd task of carrying a gargantuan vase, Sebastian smiled and gave a respectful nod.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he greeted. “You seem cheerful this morning.” He set the vase on a side table with unexpected ease and clapped the dust from his gloves. “Did you have a pleasant night?”

“I did, but I could barely sleep, I was too excited!” She clasped her hands together, bouncing on her tiptoes with joy.

“Ah, yes. Madame Gallagher’s arrival is today, is it not?”

“Yes!” Lizzy jumped in the air, her usual pigtails flopping about like rabbit ears. “Oh, the madam can be such fun; I just know she will liven up the place a great deal!”

Sebastian chuckled. “I am sure she will, My Lady. Though try not to be too distracted by Madame Gallagher, as you have been quite occupied lately.”

Lizzy’s cheerful air dampened. “With the wedding plans, of course...” She let out a disgruntled sigh. “I honestly had no idea how maddening this would be! And _of course_ Ciel does not feel the need to assist me—nor Mother, even. She would rather me marry a tree stump, if she could help it.” With a huff, Lizzy crossed her arms and pouted, dipping her chin a bit to stare at the butler’s shoes.

Giving an apologetic half-smile, Sebastian tried to console the young lady. “Do not work yourself too hard, Lady Elizabeth. They will come around soon, I am sure. In fact,” he bent toward her a bit, as a father would to his weeping child, “thinking on it now, I believe Madame Gallagher might be able to assist you. She seems the type, does she not?”

“Brilliant idea, Sebastian!” Lizzy instantly brightened, clapping her hands together again. “I will need all the help I can get. Now, goodness knows Ciel needs a bit of a push... so I ought to find him, now.” She hesitated, about to run off, before asking, “Would you happen to know where he is, Sebastian? Come to think of it, I have yet to see him today.”

The butler looked to the ceiling in thought, tugging at the edge of his glove absently. “I believe he is in the same spot he has been for the past week.”

At the same time, and with the same dull tone, Elizabeth and Sebastian said, “His office.”

“Sulking still, no doubt,” Lizzy sighed, blowing a blond strand from her face.

“Much is on the young master’s mind, My Lady.”

“Oh, I very well know. But honestly, Sebastian, could he please, just once, try to get his mind off this useless vendetta? It is starting to drive me _bonkers_ the way he skulks about muttering _Trancy_ -this and _Trancy_ -that! Just the _name_ is starting to give me migraines...”

Another chuckle from the butler sounded. “Then I am sure you can imagine how _he_ must feel.”

“Hardly!” Lizzy planted her hands on her hips. “I can barely get a word out of that boy, let alone discern what is floating about in his head...”

“He can be quite stubborn,” Sebastian said in an undertone with a mischievous grin. “Perhaps he could do with a little persuasion.”

“If by persuasion you mean a good thump on the head with a cricket bat... I could borrow one from Edward, I bet...”

Sebastian raised a brow, trying to decide whether she was serious or not. He started to reply, feeling a tad worried for his master’s future well-being, when he was interrupted by several loud _thumps_ from above his head.

 _“If you two really are going to have a chat about me, why not try a location_ _that is_ not _directly below my office?”_

Lizzy clamped her hands over her mouth, eyes widening in shock. In a shaky, giggle-tinged voice, she called, “C-Ciel?”

 _“No, it is Alice, come all this way from Wonderland. Care for a spot of tea?”_ came the sarcastic reply.

Motioning to Sebastian, Lizzy whispered, “I think he can hear us...”

 _“Clearly!”_ Ciel’s voice spat, making Lizzy flinch.

“Young Master,” Sebastian scolded in a mother-hen-like tone, “it is rude to eavesdrop.”

 _“Shut up, Sebastian.”_ There was a pause, then more _thumps_ along the ceiling and the sharp yet muffled slam of a door.

Lizzy lowered her hands. “Goodness, he sounds cross. I think he has gotten worse, to be frank...”

“Indeed.” Sebastian shook his head. “There is one bit of good news, Lady Elizabeth.”

“Hm?” She furrowed her brow, facing the butler while keeping a forlorn eye up at the ceiling.

“The beast has at last left the sanctity of his den,” he said with a wink, emitting a giggle from the young lady. With a slight bow of his head, he turned about and headed down the hall. Just before turning the corner, though, he paused, saying, “Lady Elizabeth, if you have any need of assistance—mine or the others—please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Really?” Lizzy piped up, eyes sparkling with the prospect of help.

“Absolutely. We all desire our master’s happiness, and by extension, yours.” He grinned. “That, of course, is the duty of the Phantomhive staff.”

With that, he disappeared round the corner, his coattails the last bit of him to dart out of sight.

 

* * *

 

The sun set slowly that evening and Aoife, wanting to sort through all her muddled thoughts of this fast paced week, sat in her room admiring the midnight blues as they seeped into the rustic palette of the sky. She was in a daze. It had all been so surreal that now, this simple act of nature comforted her to no end.

As the first evening star began to twinkle, Aoife pulled her gaze away and fixed it on the trunk on the opposite side of the room. _The one mother left,_ she thought, rising to her feet and grudgingly recalling the tearful farewell her mother had given.

 _“Now, dearie!”_ she had sobbed. _“I left a little surprise up in your room. A few things you neglected to pack...”_ Aoife had been about to inquire, but a finger was pressed to her lips. _“No no, do not bother asking me. You will have to see for yourself!”_ She had then given a weepy smile and threw her arms around her daughter, clutching her as though she would never see her again. It was just a few miles, honestly... _“Be good, my darling! I will be visiting soon.”_

Blowing a final kiss from the carriage window, Madame Gallagher had then disappeared down the road, leaving her only daughter with an eccentric earl and his cavalcade of purple-clad minions.

Oh, not to mention his looming shadow of a butler, whom Aoife noticed was growing increasingly wary of her movements. Several times after her mother had left, Aoife had caught Claude looking at her. He had nonchalantly looked away, of course, playing the coincidence off as a passive glance, but it still stuck in Aoife’s mind, like thistle to her bare arms when she was a child.

Reaching the old trunk, she popped open the latch, expecting a menagerie of lacy gowns and beautifying “necessities,” and was surprised to find its contents a little less frilly. Her heart clenched as she recognized what she was seeing.

“My books...” she murmured, feeling a grin part her lips.

In the trunk, lined up neatly in rows—end to end—were the storybooks, schoolbooks and songbooks of Aoife’s childhood. There were also other little trinkets as well—a fidchell set, a picture of her father, a notepaper booklet from an old friend...

Atop the trunk’s insides sat an embellished, fancy-scripted note. It read:

 _Thought you might want to bring these_  
along with you to England, dearie.  
Cannot imagine why, though...

_All my love,  
Mother_

Aoife rolled her eyes, setting the note on the nightstand then propping up her father’s picture—faded over the years—beside it. For the next several minutes or so, Aoife indulged herself in sifting through the rest of the trunk. Smiling, she flipped through some of her old books and stacked them on her bed, occasionally chuckling at a nostalgic page or a pressed leaf she found within.

Once there was a generous pile atop the quilted mattress, Aoife’s gaze latched onto a modest-sized, teal-blue song book with silver accents.

“Oh, ho!” she laughed, taking it from the trunk and brushing off any dust from the stained, faded cover. Despite the wear, the silver filigree adorning it still remained, curling along the edges and binding like miniature ivy vines.

“Now _this_ I remember!” Aoife said, smiling in reminiscence.

Memories of nighttime lullabies, tunes whistled and sung at family parties, and ballads warbled in singing lessons with her mother surfaced in Aoife’s brain, most having originated from this one book. She turned the delicate tome over in her hands, taking in the yellowed and bent pages, the cracked binding and the frayed corners. It was old. Older than Aoife’s mother (she believed it had belonged originally to her grandmother—on her mother’s side, of course).

Leafing through the pages, Aoife paced the room with an ever growing grin, humming a tune here and there and recalling every little inked mark she found within the margins of lyrics. Different handwritings from years and owners past noted small, insignificant things. “ _Mother’s favorite song”,_ one said in Gaelic. _“Perfect song for parties”, “Sing this one at weddings”, “Georgie’s favorite”,_ said others. She had neared the back of the book when one little marking struck her more than any other.

“ _‘My favorite!’_ …” she murmured, reading the wobbly, English text of a child. Her mouth formed a tense line, and the book suddenly felt heavy in her hands.

She quickly flipped back to the front page, ignoring the upset feeling in her gut, and noticed the exposed corner of a loose sheet of paper within the pages. Pulling it out, she felt a sudden tug at her heart. On the sheet were roughly penned lyrics, spanning the page’s entire length—both front and back—in a handwriting Aoife thought looked vaguely familiar.

She felt a sudden relief, glancing through the words and recognizing a simple tune her father had usually hummed in the corridors back home. She recalled in particular one night, a brilliant autumn night, where she and her father had been sitting outside, watching the stars wink into existence one by one. She was young, and her feeble self had begun drifting off into a slumber, feeling her father’s warm breath and hearing his low, forlorn voice as he sang his daughter to sleep against his chest...

A sudden idea struck Aoife as she passed by the glass doors to her balcony. It was such a lovely night. A lovely, _quiet_ night. _Too quiet for my tastes,_ she thought sneakily, clutching the songbook and loose song sheet beneath her arm and slipping out into the breezy night air, not unlike the night she had shared with her father all those years ago.

 

* * *

 

“Goddamn Claude…” Alois snarled under his breath, strutting down the corridor to his room. The blasted butler had kept him to such an hour, and for what? “Goddamn paperwork. Utter nonsense, honestly…”

He yawned. It was not even that late, but the monotony of signing paper after paper at Claude’s direction when he otherwise should have been celebrating old Madame Gallagher’s departure exhausted him.

But at last, he was free. At the signing of the final paper, Alois had already been halfway out of his office door, beaming and tipping an invisible top hat at his fuming butler. He did not even care that he was supposed to write Phantomhive a reply note. “Do it for me, will you? I am _done_ with paperwork,” he had told Claude. The butler could forge his signature, he was sure. He would not put anything past that man. So why put in the effort?

Alois snickered, briefly imagining smoke trickling out of an angered Claude’s ears and nose. (Actually, he had a pretty good feeling that was possible… Again, he would not put it past him.)

Despite his fatigue, Alois’s new freedom made him antsy. He wanted to do something. He _had_ to do something. He felt he would explode, otherwise.

Creasing his brow, Alois stuck out his marked tongue and blew a raspberry. _There is nothing to do here,_ he thought. _Nothing_ fun, _at least. Not with the possibility of the little wench and her hopeless lackey popping around the corner every bloody second..._

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he kicked the leg of a side table for no particular reason. The vase atop it rattled, but otherwise remained still. “There must be _something…_ ” he mumbled, scratching his chin. Thinking of nothing, Alois pleasured himself by trying to remain on only one of the running colors of the rug lining this particular hallway, tiptoeing along as though he were a circus tightrope-walker suspended high above the ground.

For the past while, Alois had been skulking along, staring at the floor so not to lose his balance. He knew not in the slightest that he had already passed his own room and was venturing into the area of the manor where the guestrooms were located.

He walked by an opened door and in a flash he realized where he was. A few days before the Gallaghers had arrived, Alois had been up to a bit of mischief while Hannah was cleaning the guestrooms. The result… was a bit of a mess… and ever since then Claude insisted on leaving the hall door, as well as the door to the outdoor balcony, wide open to let the room air out. Remembering this made Alois snicker.

Heaving out an exasperated breath, Alois flipped around and started the walk to his room. He had barely taken a step when a cold chill crept along his body and stood his hair on end.

Rubbing his forearms, he stared into the room, brow furrowed, and worked in his brain whether Claude would scold him or not for shutting out the cool night air.

As another breeze prickled up his spine, Alois gritted his teeth and stomped in. If Claude got mad, hell if he cared. Besides, the room had aired out enough by then. Not _too_ much marmalade had seeped into the carpet and bedding, after all...

He gripped the door, ready to slam it shut—but he stopped. On the most recent gust of wind, flowing through the balcony door like a wispy, silken curtain was a lilting, melancholic sound not dissimilar to the repetitious, melodious cooing of a late night songbird.

“What in the hell...?” Alois mumbled, forgetting the cold and peering out onto the balcony.

The night was still and star-filled—dry and colorless, in his opinion, as the moon casted a more monochromic light than usual. He ran his gaze along the length of the terrace, still hearing the light, otherworldly sound, distorted by the wind.

He turned to his right, looking past his own balcony and to that of the adjoining guestroom. A bright flash of orange entered his vision and, focusing on it, he made out the flowing form of Lady Gallagher, leaning on the balcony’s stone balustrade and facing out into the darkness of night. Alois’s eyes widened.

This silvery sound, this whispering melody, was coming from her.

Shrinking back into the doorway, Alois kept an eye on her, watching as she swayed and flowed through her song, aided wistfully by the rustling foliage below and the whistling, swirling breeze.

“Huh,” he murmured, his eyebrows popping up on his forehead. “Who would have thought the wench could carry a tune?”

With that, he leaned in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes gazing out at the little warbling Irish girl with piqued, smirking interest.

 

* * *

 

_One morning in summer,_

_unexpectedly,_

_I saw you, my darling,_

_underneath a tree._

_Hair golden like sunlight,_

_eyes glist’ning like dew,_

_I wondered with wonder,_

_“Could this sight be true?”_

 

_You saw me, fair maiden,_

_and brandished a smile._

_I sat by you, thinking_

_I would stay a while._

_That “while” then grew_

_to the greatest degree,_

_for we never did part_

_till a quarter to three._

 

_Fair maiden, I love you._

_Please never be gone._

_Your eyes are as bright_

_and as fresh as the dawn._

_I do wish to know_

_just how much you love me._

_Even just a bit, dear,_

_I’ll take graciously._

 

_Never did I think that_

_I would fall for you._

_But darling, what else_

_was there for me to do?_

_Good gracious, you have me_

_trapped inside your web._

_For your wit and your charm,_

_my love will never ebb._

 

_Fair maiden, fair maiden,_

_you are my best friend._

_I hope we will be_

_side by side till the end._

_If you are a rose_

_then I am your thorn._

_Protection and love_

_from the day “we” were born._

 

_Fair maiden, I love you._

_Please never be gone._

_Your eyes are as bright_

_and as fresh as the dawn._

_I do wish to know_

_just how much you love me._

_Even just a bit, dear,_

_I’ll take graciously._

 

As the refrain came to an end, Aoife felt a complete calmness about her. Eyes glazed and half-open, she looked down at the book in her hands, its binding shut tightly between her fingers, in which rested the lyrics to the tune that will now repeat in the back of her mind, as though it had become the poetic, background theme of her life. It was in her head now, and she knew it would never leave. It comforted her, really. She felt that now, somehow, her father was with her.

A smile grew on her face. Despite the nightly chill, she felt strangely warm, letting out the bridled energy in her—the doubt, the longing for home—through the lyrics she knew so well.

Inhaling, and faltering a bit as a laugh escaped her chest, she took in the breath she needed for the final verse…

A loud, deliberate clapping noise sounded, giving her a start and nearly making her drop the songbook off the balcony ledge. Whirling about, she located the source to be on the adjoining balcony, striding forward with a prominent gait.

“Earl Trancy!” Aoife gasped, holding the songbook to her chest protectively and feeling her face turn scarlet. “I had no idea—”

“No, no, no,” the earl chuckled smoothly, holding up a hand and leaning against his balcony’s ledge. “I believe that should be _my_ line, My Lady.” He shook his head, his smile more crooked than usual. _“I_ had no idea that someone like _you_ could do something like _that.”_

Aoife blinked, then fidgeted, letting what he said sink into her mind. Had that been a faulty attempt at a compliment? “‘Someone like me’?” she repeated bluntly before she would stop herself. Setting the book on the ledge, she strode toward the other balcony with her hands on her hips. “And what, pray tell, would that mean?” She tried keeping her tone light, conversational. The last thing she wanted to do was set the earl on edge—after all, she had witnessed his rage, and would certainly like to avoid it for the time being.

Earl Trancy laughed. “It is a compliment, my dear.” Aoife must have given him a skeptical look, because he added in a hopeful tone, “Please take it.”

“I am...” Aoife began, narrowing her eyes in suspicion yet still holding onto her smile for the earl’s sake. After careful thought, she continued, “...not at all sure that I can, Earl Trancy.”

The earl’s eyebrow rose and his grin faltered a bit, making Aoife worry that she had said the wrong thing. “And why not?” he asked, his tone pleading. “Your singing is lovely.”

Aoife crossed her arms and broadened her shoulders, lifting her chin in pride. Now _that_ compliment she could take. The earl then smiled, seeing that his compliment had affected her so.

“You were a tad off-key on that last verse, though,” the earl said casually, leaning forward a bit.

“I beg your pardon?!” Aoife exclaimed—a bit louder than she ought to have—and dropped her arms defiantly. “And just how would you know?” she added with a disbelieving laugh.

Earl Trancy winked and said, “I am not all business, my dear.”

“I perceived as much, but did you honestly feel the need to downtrod on a perfectly good bit of flattery?”

The earl merely chuckled, causing Aoife to shake her head. _What a child..._ she thought.

“Well then, Lady Gallagher,” said the young man breathily, examining his fingernails and picking at his thumbnail in particular. “Why not redeem yourself?”

“‘Redeem myself’?” Aoife repeated doubtfully, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms again. “Why should I do a thing like that?”

He did not move, but the earl’s eyes met hers from under his downturned face. He smirked and crooned, “You know you want to.”

Aoife creased her brow in thought. He had a point, however shameful it may be. _Off-key, he says? Poppycock!_ she thought with a huff.

At her slight hesitation, Earl Trancy pressed further, “Oh, go on, Lady Gallagher. Prove me wrong.” With a grand flourish, he added sumptuously, “Sing for me!”

Aoife’s mouth tensed into a straight line. Should she? Should she really go along with the earl’s game? Whether she played along or not, she had the strangest feeling she would be on the losing end...

She took a deep breath, staring at the garden below then looking over her shoulder at her songbook—still on its perch, its silver accents glinting in the moonlight. What to sing, though? What tune would appease this giddy earl? _Perhaps..._ she thought, running through the book’s lyrical contents in her head and repeatedly coming back to one song in particular, _No. No, not_ that _one. It is... not for him to hear._

“Is that a yes?”

Aoife looked up. Earl Trancy was leaning on his elbow, tilting his head and staring right at her with huge, innocently blinking eyes.

Pursing her lips, Aoife thought, _It will have to do, I guess. Though I am_ not _happy about this..._ She then nodded at the earl.

He hopped up and down, clapping and saying, “Splendid! Go on, then! Go on!”

With a small laugh—as the young man seemed more like a young toddler than anything else—Aoife warned quickly, “I may be a little rusty with the words, as this tune was from several years ago.” She could have just read the lyrics from the songbook, but she could not move, feeling rooted to the spot out of anxiety (Or was it embarrassment? Or excitement? She had no clue, honestly).

Nevertheless, she tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and let the words flow...

 _The full moon, slightly chipped_  
That's so me  
So please  
Save me and hold me tight  
Just make me all right  
Under the dark clouds  
Wingless swans in my soul  
From the fortress, a pessimist  
  
My howl in the night,  
To the isolated star  
Don't drive me crazy  
Everything seems too far  
The sky so deep  
Spread endlessly  
  
How on earth can I get to the strawberry field?

It was a slow song, moving and whispering in the night carefully, delicately. Aoife grinned, feeling lighter than air. Her childhood days were wonderful; playing about her home, scampering through the fields and the forests, searching for little fairies or trying to catch rabbits, playing games and trilling tunes. Each day was a new adventure, back then. She and her best friend... laughing and causing the trouble only noblemen’s children could cause... singing this one song back and forth to each other with a gaiety unbefitting its melancholic air...

Aoife inhaled, taking in the crisp, woodland scents of the breezy, whispering grove below, and stretched out her arms in the wind, feeling her hair blow about her. All of this she did with her eyes still shut, the haunting glow of the moon seeping into her vision behind her closed eyelids.

She imagined how music would fill this silence, how the instrumental sounds would melt together in their forlorn, lullaby-like style. It was not a song to be danced to, no, but nonetheless Aoife moved about the balcony, feeling younger, happier, swirling in the wind and awaiting the next verse. By the time it came, Aoife had enough breath in her lungs to burst. The grin widened on her face, she stood still, and she sang:

 _The full moon, slightly chipped_  
Uncertain  
Oh, please  
Save me and let me smile  
Just make me all right  
Over the bed of trees  
My heart spins around  
  
My howl in the dawn  
To the isolated star  
I dare to forgive you  
Everything seems too far  
But care for me tenderly  
  
How on earth can I get to the strawberry field?

She sustained the note, the final word, letting it naturally fade into the night. As the last wisps of sound disappeared from the air, Aoife brought her arms to her sides and felt herself return to solid ground—figuratively, of course.

She chuckled, despite herself, allowing her eyes to flutter open and slightly surprised to find her vision blurred by an onslaught of tears. Hurriedly, she brushed them away. Seeing that she was in the center of her balcony rather than along its left ledge as she had been previously, she blushed and addressed the earl sheepishly.

“Goodness… My apologies, Earl Trancy… I did not think I would be affected so by…”

The balcony was empty, the only sign of movement coming from the curtain waving through the opened door. He had left.

“Well!” Aoife huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “A good night to you, too, then!”

Feeling an overwhelming sense of embarrassment, Aoife spun on her heel to stomp back into her room for the night…

…and nearly bumped noses with Earl Trancy.

“Aahh!” she screeched, jumping backwards and holding a hand to her chest. “Good _God!”_

The earl’s eyes, wide, transfixed and haunting upon Aoife’s turnaround, suddenly squinted as a snorting, adolescent snigger erupted from the slight young man’s throat. At one more glance toward Aoife’s horrified face, Earl Trancy bent over in wild laughter.

Aoife puffed out a short breath, staring down at her doubled-over fiancé and trying to calm her still-racing heart. Absently she fixed a loose hair that had fallen in her face.

“Oh God!” Earl Trancy cried breathlessly between bouts of chuckles. “You should have seen the look on your face!” Pausing a moment, he bore a gruesome, petrified expression before pinching his face once more in mirth. Presently, he wiped tears from his eyes, took note of Aoife’s flushing, disapproving face and bent forward once more, his amusement insuppressible.

Aoife shook her head. “Just how many times do you plan on frightening me to death this evening, My Lord?” she inquired in a higher-pitched tone than she would have liked.

He held up a hand. “A moment, please, My Lady...”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, for goodness’ sake!” she offered with a disbelieving smirk.

“Forgive me,” the earl said, straightening and dabbing away a final tear from his cheek. “I merely felt the need to—”

“To break into your fiancée’s bedroom for a childish prank?”

“Break in?” the earl questioned. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Aoife brushed past him, entering her room, and said, “I am quite certain I locked my door...”

“Oh! Fear not, Lady Gallagher,” he said, trotting behind her. “I know not how to open locked doors by hand.” In an undertone he added, “Though it did give me a moment of grief while trying to get in here...”

“Then how...?” Aoife’s brow creased as she tried the knob, bewildered that the latch was still securely in place. With pursed lips, she wondered why he did not think to knock like a sensible human being...

With an absent, innocent face, Earl Trancy pointed to a section of wall between the bed and the stool where sat Madame Gallagher’s trunk.

“Servant door,” he said plainly, as though it were the obvious notion. “They connect the adjoining bedrooms. Nifty, eh?”

Doubtful, Aoife let out a laugh. “You are joking.”

“See for yourself, then,” he replied, gesturing for her to investigate.

Keeping her eyes on the earl, she crouched beside her bed. After a moment her eyes widened as she saw, indeed, the smallest of indents in the wall. She traced it with her finger until she came to a slightly bigger indentation. Fixing her nail into the small niche, she pulled at the supposed-door and gasped as it glided open noiselessly.

It was a small opening, only large enough to fit Aoife’s form if she were to crawl—which she would surely have done, had an esteemed English earl not been loitering behind her. Reaching into the doorway, Aoife felt another door—she was sure that was what it was, as it gave way slightly at her touch—and with a confirming nod from the earl, she pushed it, watching it swing out into the adjoining room.

“Goodness me,” she whispered, considering the manor to be more medieval than she had initially believed. “How did you discover this?” she asked, staring agape through the secret little door.

“Ah...” he murmured, scratching his head and suddenly seeming flustered. “I think an old servant showed it to me. Maybe it was one of the triplets—I am not sure, exactly.”

Aoife, ignoring his vague answer, pressed on a perturbing subject than had suddenly popped into her mind and now gave her a sinking feeling. “They do not lock, I suppose?”

His mouth twisted in thought. “Not that I know,” he put simply, as though the matter was trifling.

“Right,” Aoife sighed, shutting the two doors carefully and subconsciously planning to barricade the secret entrance with a trunk... or three.

“Anyway,” she said, rising and clapping any dust off her hands and dress, “what did make you rush over here in such haste that made sneaking in your only option?” As she spoke, she undid the lock to her door—two yet-to-be-married youths locked together in a room? Ghastly, should they be found...—and made her way back onto the balcony, feeling Earl Trancy follow behind her closely like a shadow.

As she did so, she pondered just why she was letting him in—why she did not shoo him away from her room and slam the door with proper feminine pride. She smiled to herself. _Curiosity, I guess,_ she thought, answering her own question. _I want to see how he is without the pretense of royal prestige. I have seen him crack—the hall with Hannah, the wine at dinner—but I want to see more. I want to understand the man behind the title. I want to break the shell._ She felt herself swell with determination—or was it anticipation? Anxiety...? _God, why can my nerves never settle?_ she thought, sighing.

Earl Trancy hummed, tapping a finger on his chin in thought, and made himself comfortable leaning against the balcony ledge.

“Ah, yes!” he sang out suddenly, holding up the same finger. “That song you were just singing...”

“Yes, how was it, Earl Trancy? Was I on-key this time? Have I proved you wrong?” she questioned cheekily, crossing her arms across her abdomen and leaning back against the balustrade perpendicular to his.

He seemed uninterested, though, and said swiftly, “Wonderfully executed. Gave me chills. Now...”

Aoife rolled her eyes and smirked at the generic, quickly-thought answer and, as the earl seemed to be not yet finished with his critique, she sat back, just dying to hear what would come out of his mouth next.

“How do you know that song?” he asked in a surprisingly sincere tone—borderline anxious, really. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and waited expectantly.

Aoife’s brow rose. This was surely out of the blue. What interest would he possibly have in this simple, melancholic tune?

She reached behind her for the songbook and thumbed through the pages. “It is an old song from when I was young. I’ve heard it sung a time or two, so I do not think it is particularly uncommon.” She rocked her head from side to side, adding with a shrug, “Unique, I must say, but not uncommon. My mother showed it to me in this book, and—”

“May I see?” Earl Trancy edged next to Aoife, so that their hips nearly touched, and gripped one side of the book, now opened to the page in question. Aoife gulped, willing herself to ignore his proximity and stare at the shakily etched handwriting in the margins.

“Huh,” he murmured with a note of surprise, “I feel like... I know this song.”

“Really?” Aoife pressed.

Releasing his grip from the book, Earl Trancy stepped away from the balustrade and looked at Aoife, hands on hips and head tilted, his narrowed eyes searching her face for answers she was sure she could never provide.

“I honestly have no idea,” he stated bluntly after a moment. “It is so vague in my memory… like a dream. Or a dream of a memory. Then again, it could have been like a memory of a dream…” he rambled on.

Aoife closed the songbook and clutched it to her chest. “Hang on. You really cannot remember where you have heard it?”

The earl looked to the stone floor of the balcony and ran a hand through his hair, causing parts of it to stick out on end. His face twisted in thought and for a while he said nothing.

“Well,” Aoife began, taking a cautious stride toward Earl Trancy, “I did say that it was common, so...”

Something in his expression twitched as she stepped closer, and he shook his head. “Yes, right, of course.” He smirked, voice taking on a more lighthearted tone. “Could have heard it in a pub, for all my memory is good for.”

“You’ve been to a pu—?” Aoife began, then paused as his words sunk in further. She squinted, smelling the affront a good ways away. “And what is that supposed to mean, _might I ask?”_

He looked at her with an almost genuine confusion. Almost. “What part, the pub or my memory?”

“Do you think _all_ Irish frequent pubs?”

The earl blinked. “Is that not the usual meeting place for you lot?”

“ _My lot—_?”Aoife jutted her head back in surprise and snarled, ready to blast him with a good lengthy explanation on how Englishmen were not exactly the most _cut-above_ as they would think, and what business had he to talk about her so lowly, when she noted him quivering with laughter.

A joke. A fiendish one, at that. She could not keep the smirk from her lip. “That’s not funny, Earl Trancy.”

“No?” the earl piped, a brow raised.

“No,” came the flat reply.

“Ah, I see,” he said, but Aoife could still hear the tremble of mirth. “I will do my best to remember that. Or I would, if—”

“If your memory weren’t as horrid.”

Now both of his brows raised. “Caught that, did you? Clever.”

She shrugged. “I only listen. It is not that difficult.”

The earl hummed a reply, ironically focusing on something out in the garden that was not his fiancée. Aoife watched him carefully, feeling a heaviness settle in the air as he worked something over in his mind. The wind ruffled his hair, and for the next few seconds his form otherwise remained still, silhouetted by the indoor light. He raised his head, and Aoife could make out his grin again, plastered on his pale cheeks—a mask.

“Where did you get that book, again?” he said suddenly, pointing at the book in her hands.

After a moment, Aoife smiled warmly, fond of the memory. “It was my mother’s. Well, really it was my grandparents’…” She laughed. “I am not at all sure how far back it goes in my family, to be honest.”

“Uh-huh,” the earl murmured, nodding. “Musical family.”

She, too, nodded. Noting his rather scattered demeanor, she tried to change the subject. She set a bright smile on her face and asked, “What about you, Earl Trancy?”

“Hm?” He threw her a questioning look.

“Might I expect any musical talent out of you?”

 “Ah… No, truthfully.”

“No singing?” Aoife leaned an elbow on the ledge.

“I cannot sing,” he said flatly, joining her at the ledge and pompously examining his nails.

“Nonsense.” Aoife shot a suave gaze at him. “Everyone can sing.”

The earl held up a finger. “Correction: I _do not_ sing.”

She laughed. “Instruments, then? Anything at all?”

Earl Trancy squinted off into the night. “I have a dented mouth organ,” he offered after a moment. “Does that count?”

Aoife pressed a hand to her lips, suppressing a laugh. “I should think so…” she said, trying to imagine just how he acquired such an object.

“Brilliant!” he said with a heavy amount of sarcasm.

Feeling a chill, Aoife crossed the balcony to reenter her room with Earl Trancy in tow. As she went about the room, placing her songbook on a bookshelf—she made a mental note to file the rest of her books in a similar manner—and rummaging through her newly-stocked wardrobe for a shawl to shield her from the cold, she felt the earl watching her as he himself crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

“So apart from your _feverish_ mouth organ playing,” Aoife said, “what _do_ you do, Earl Trancy?”

“Hm...” he murmured thoughtfully.

Aoife chuckled, enjoying the pinched face he made whenever he worked his brain. “I hope that is not too difficult a question, My—”

“Do you know how to dance?”

She looked up, brow raised, bewildered by the sudden question. The earl was still in the doorway, face strangely illuminated by the lamplight. His face resembled that of an inquisitive yet reserved child—awkwardly glancing at and away from her, pretending the object of his inquiry was trifling in his eyes.

Aoife puffed a short breath. _Typical boy._

Forgetting about the shawl, Aoife faced her fiancé with a smirk.

“Dance, you say?” she said rather loudly. Earl Trancy flinched, looking regretful. If Aoife noticed this, she ignored it. “I am Irish, dear Earl Trancy! Of _course_ I can dance.”

With that, she hoisted up the bottom of her skirts, exposing her laced-up boots, and hopped about the room in a jittery, yet expertly choreographed, little jig.

Presently, Aoife dropped her skirt to the floor again and grinned. “See? Told you I could,” she said proudly.

Earl Trancy looked mortified, his face flushing brightly. Shifting his weight uncomfortably, he avoided looking at his fiancée and mumbled, “That was... ah... _not_ what I was expecting.”

Aoife let out a laugh, at which the earl grew even redder.

“Hold on a moment, Earl Trancy,” she said, spotting the shawl she had been looking for on her bed and slipping it over her shoulders. “Are you going to tell me that lifting my skirt—not even high enough for any trouble, no doubt—has you bothered... yet you traipsing in on me in my undergarments has no effect at all?”

The earl’s eyebrows shot up. “Undergarments?” he said, sounding surprised. “What are you on about?”

“When you came into my room the other day and I was trying on the dresses my mother bought for me in London—horrid ones, at that, I must say. You saw them, right? All lace and frills... Goodness knows I will never let her buy anything for me again, after that travesty. Anyway, that was no extravagant dress I was wearing, My Lord.”

Earl Trancy paled, and there was a sort of flicker in his eyes, as though something had just clicked in his brain. Drawing in a breath, he said tensely, “You mean—”

“You saw me in my skivvies, Earl Trancy.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from laughing as the earl’s face went from pale white to scarlet red once again. Red really was not his color.

He took a step backwards as though he had been hit in the stomach, clasping a hand to his mouth and staring in front of him with wide eyes.

“No wonder Claude was sore with me...” Aoife heard him mumble feebly.

Aoife narrowed her eyes. _To think he would worry about his butler first..._ she thought, shaking her head.

Earl Trancy cleared his throat, still looking quite flustered, and said, “When I said dancing before, I meant ballroom dancing.”

Aoife blinked. “Oh,” she said. Tapping her finger on her chin, she recalled each instance in her life where she had attended a party. Sifting through the memories of those at which dancing was involved, she came to the startling conclusion: She had never ballroom danced in her entire life.

“Do not look down upon me for this,” Aoife started, holding up her hands in defense, as if her fiancé would attack her for lacking in ballroom etiquette, “but I have never—”

“I could teach you.”

Aoife shook her head slightly. Had she heard him right? “Sorry?” she said, for surely she must be mistaken...

“After all,” the earl laughed, the smugness returning to his voice, “I cannot have a wife that cannot ballroom dance. I will be made a fool.”

Aoife pursed her lips—after feeling a slight flutter in her gut when he said “wife”—eyes becoming slits as Earl Trancy’s sly grin grew.

“Will you, now?” she said shortly, hands on her hips again. She really was starting to feel like her mother. “And is that supposed to be a predicament of mine?”

“It should be,” he said seriously, crossing his arms. A moment later, that mischievous grin was back and, tapping a finger on his nose, he pressed, “I do think I remember seeing dear little Ciel dance graciously with _his_ fiancée on numerous occasions. They truly were a spectacle. What was her name? Manford? Middleton?”

“Midford. Elizabeth Midford,” Aoife hissed. She knew where the earl was going with this.

Earl Trancy snapped his fingers. “That is her! Well, of course you know her.” He slid his hands in his pockets and took a few steps back, where the shadowy light of the moon, coupled with the indoor light, made him out to be a strange, marbled creature. “You _did_ tie with her in swordplay, correct? That is what your mother told me, at least.”

Aoife scowled. _Curse that woman and her blathering mouth._

“Quite an admirable feat, I must say, being on par with a member of a knight’s family.” He was examining his nails again, an action that was slowly starting to irk Aoife. The earl’s face suddenly took on the pitiable impression of a sad-eyed puppy-dog. “It would be such a shame if you could not be on par with her again...”

 _Oh, for heaven’s sake..._ Aoife breathed sharply out of her nose. Another dirty trick by Earl Alois Trancy. What choice did she have, though? Disappointing her fiancée—or anyone else of regal importance, for that matter—was really not an option here, even if it was merely a small matter such as dancing. _On the bright side,_ Aoife thought, _this could be some form of... bonding, I suppose._

Noticing a flicker of movement in her vision, Aoife raised her gaze. Earl Trancy was out on the balcony, grin on his face, eyes bright and curious, hand outstretched toward her in beckoning, his entire, dimly-lit form quivering from the night’s wind. Assuming the look on her face had given the earl her answer, she sighed, knowing it was all for the best, and crossed the room to join him, removing her shawl and dropping it onto a nearby chair as she went.

She no longer felt cold, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Ow.”

“Oh, sorry!”

“No, no, that is quite—OUCH.”

“Alright, that is it!” Lady Gallagher broke away from Alois, flapping her hands about like a crazed chicken. “Dancing is _not_ for me.”

 _You are damn bloody sure it is not,_ Alois thought, stepping tenderly on his left foot. It must have been swollen, after all the times the wench had stomped on it with her big feet.

“Nonsense,” he said anyway, waving a hand and signaling her to join him again. He cursed himself though, for not being able to keep the strain out of his voice.

Had this been his idea? All of this? Their little rendezvous on the balcony? What was he thinking? _I should have just let well enough alone and sauntered off to my room—but no, Alois, you need to go off and sneak into bedrooms, play games, and give ruddy dancing lessons!_

He let out an exasperated sigh. He was lecturing himself. His latest blunder was not even over yet and he was already getting a brilliant lashing-out. An awful knot formed in his stomach upon realizing how much he was starting to sound like Claude.

For God’s sake, he was becoming his own butler. He shuddered, remembering years ago a similar incident—with reversed roles, of course—when Claude had taken it upon himself to teach his master how to dance.

Thinking about it, he could almost empathize with the young wench.

Almost.

“We should just forget it,” Lady Gallagher said, backing away, having taken his sigh as a comment on her dancing—which was, to put it lightly, pretty God-awful.

“Nonsense,” Alois repeated in a high-pitched voice, plastering a smile on his face. Lady Gallagher raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

_This wench and her Goddamn eyebrow-raising._

“Try once more,” he said quickly, for fear of being thrown out. “Please.”

She looked taken aback, and for some reason, Alois felt offended.

“What?” he asked.

“You said ‘please’...” she replied, a tinge of a smirk at her lips.

Alois let his arms drop to his sides, feeling warmth prickle his neck. “So?” he snapped, instantly regretting his short lapse into gentlemanliness. Now he was getting agitated. “I was only trying to be—”

“Oh, do not get your feathers all ruffled, Earl Trancy,” she said, sauntering toward him again. “I was just... pleasantly surprised.”

She looked up at him—as she was shorter than he was—with a smug grin. Alois narrowed his eyes.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he said, glowering back down at her.

She laughed, and he scowled. Hands finding their usual place on her hips, the wench answered, “For once, you almost sounded genuine.”

Now it was his turn to be taken aback. _Genuine?_ he thought, more lost than before. Was that... a good thing? He opened his mouth to ask this—as he truly was dumbfounded. Had he not been genuine this entire past week?—but she held up her hand, stopping him.

“It matters not, My Lord. Now, shall we continue?” she said brightly, taking a step back to start their little lesson over from the very beginning.

Alois blinked. “Very well, then,” he murmured, determined that he would find out what she meant someday—someday soon, preferably.

After a moment’s pause, Alois bowed, and from his lowered gaze he saw Lady Gallagher curtsy.

Rising again, he took her hand in his and placed his other hand on her waist. (The wench flinched at his touch at first, and Alois had to use all his might not to roll his eyes as color tinged her freckled cheeks.)

“Alright now, just as we did before,” he said with forced calm—in reality, he was bracing himself for the impact of her foot. “Right foot first, remember?”

She swallowed, brow knit in concentration. “Right.”

“Exactly,” he said, eliciting a weak half-grin from her. “Off we go now. And...”

The first steps were awkward, tentative, but then she seemed to find a bit more confidence, and they strode about the balcony in a simple, three-step waltz.

“One, two, three,” Alois heard her breathe in time, glancing frequently at her feet exactly as he had told her not to. “One, two, three...”

He murmured a laugh—a quiet, humming noise that was just enough to disrupt Lady Gallagher’s focus, planting the heel of her boot directly on Alois’s foot.

“YEEOUCH!” Alois yelped, momentarily bending over in blinding pain while still holding onto the wench.

“Damn it all!” she cried, frustrated. “And I was doing so well!”

“Keep going,” Alois said, his tone hoarse and strained. “I am just fine...”

“Clearly not!”

He stood up straight and gave her a pained grin. Through clenched teeth he said mock-cheerily, “Right on the big toe...”

The wench sighed loudly, shaking her head. It struck Alois that she had not apologized this time, and he wondered why this affected him even in the slightest. “This would be so much easier with music...”

Alois pursed his lips as the last statement—more of a suggestion, really—hung on the empty air. Moments later, he grinned—not his gentleman’s grin, not his sadistic grin, not his Hannah-got-hurt grin—a wide-toothed grin, and with a flourish he spun his fiancée about, slowly but deliberately, catching her plainly off guard, and hummed under his breath the song that was currently itching at the back of his head.

At first, the wench was startled by the sudden jump right into the steps that had taken so much of her focus to memorize. Though, as she slowly recognized what Alois had done, realized just exactly what particular song he had chosen to lull her into the tranquil maneuver of the waltz, she laughed, occasionally singing along to Alois’s humming melody.

_“The full moon, slightly chipped...”_

They went about the balcony, the forlorn tune guiding them. Not once did Lady Gallagher step on his foot.

Several minutes passed, and still they danced. The song—short by nature—had been repeated at least three times, and by the forth, Alois caught himself in the most dreadful act he could have possibly have done.

He was no longer humming the lyrics.

He was singing them quietly as though he knew them by heart.

_“My howl in the dawn to the isolated star..._ _I dare to forgive you, everything seems too far...”_

“Why, Earl Trancy,” Lady Gallagher said, startling him to silence. They had stopped dancing. For how long had they been stopped?

“What?” he asked nonchalantly, readying himself to make a run for it if need be.

“I thought you said you _did not_ sing,” she responded pompously. Pompously, she had said it... Good grief, what had he done?

“Well...” he let the word linger, conjuring up a reply that would not make him out a fool. _Sod it,_ he thought, _I am getting too bloody tired of thinking..._

So, instead, he shrugged. “I surmised that this would be the more suitable alternative.”

“As opposed to... what, exactly?” she inquired suspiciously, cocking her head to the side and shooting up an eyebrow.

_That bloody brow again... I should have Claude shave it off..._

Briefly motionless—and still in each other’s arms, Alois noted with dulled interest—Alois’s thoughts flew back to earlier in the evening. How long had he been on the balcony? Hours? Days? Who was counting, really?

“How did that little jingle of yours go, dearie?” he asked innocently. She looked at him, confused, but before she could say anything, Alois gripped the young lady tighter and piped, “Aha! Now I remember! _‘One morning in summer, unexpectedly...’_ ”

Lady Gallagher never knew what hit her. Without notice she was spinning around, with no particular steps to be found, listening to her fiancé warble a dodgy version of the song she had sung herself previously.

Only this particular version was double—no, _triple_ the speed.

She started to laugh; it was an airy sound, as both were quite breathless in their swirling dance. Occasionally she joined in his singing, which could barely be called such, as the lyrics were unknown to him save for the first few lines. Nonetheless, he hummed along or rambled ad libitum.

They spun and spun, whirling faster and faster to the point where words were nearly incomprehensible to them—only laughter was distinguishable. They were flying, dancing on air, it felt like.

For a fraction of a second, Alois felt a trill inside him, a fluttering sense of... happiness, was it? This mindless act, this madness that could never really be called a dance, just might have been the most freeing feeling he had felt in a while—a _long_ while. No Claude. No Phantomhive. No marriage. No portly mother-in-law. Just senseless play. Just... _fun._

They broke apart, finally, rapt with laughter. Both were as dizzy as could be and hobbled drunkenly about the balcony.

Lady Gallagher, barely able to keep her balance, collapsed at the edge of the balcony, her back leaning against the balustrade. After seeing the world dip a few more times, Alois did the same, hoping to avoid any onslaught of nausea.

Holding up a wobbly finger and trying to blink away the awkward pain lingering in his head, he mumbled, “As opposed… to _that_ …”

Lady Gallagher smiled and shook her head.

Moments passed, where the only sound was their tired panting, accompanied by an occasional inserted breathy chuckle.

“Thank... you...”

Alois turned. She was looking at him, grinning, hair windswept and chest rising and falling with the rapid intake of breath. He smirked.

“What... for?” he asked between breaths. “Teaching you?”

She shook her head. “That was... without a doubt... the best time I have had since I arrived here.”

And that caught Alois off guard. There was gratitude in her eyes—at least, that was what he thought it was. He felt his neck prickle.

Turning away and scratching the back of his head, he said, “No trouble at all...”

They sat there for a bit, still trying to catch their breath and gazing above them at the stars. It really was a beautiful night. In his mind though, Alois was reeling. There was something about her comment that had him ill at ease.

“You do like it here, though?”

Lady Gallagher looked at him, as though shocked he could ask such a question.

“Of course!” she cried. “It is a magnificent home with wonderful servants, even more wonderful friends just down the road—whom I direly need to visit someday soon, really—”

“Phantomhive, you mean,” Alois nearly spat. It was not a question.

There was an uncomfortable silence before Lady Gallagher replied. Apparently, Alois’s non-question had pained her.

“Yes,” she said. He noticed a tenseness to her, like she was holding her breath.

Alois nodded, and after a moment he said, “I am glad you find England to your liking.” If his tone gave no indication of his so-called gladness, he did not care.

Again, there was silence, and if it was possible, this one was more uncomfortable than the last.

Wind blew across the balcony, ruffling their hair. The night was obviously growing older, more hostile. Almost in response to this, Lady Gallagher drew her knees up against her chest like a child, her dress sprawled out around her on the stone floor. Briefly, she casted a glance over her shoulder.

Alois fiddled with a button on his vest, unsure of what to say next. _Leave,_ his mind said. _Now is your chance. You have messed up enough._ He winced as his inner-Claude reprimanded him again. Of course, if he just up and left with no care in the world, there would be a good chance the _real_ Claude would have reason to shout. He rubbed his forehead, pushing back his hair, his thoughts muddled.

“You should go.”

Alois nearly jumped at the sound of Lady Gallagher’s voice. As ridiculous as it sounded, he had almost forgotten her presence. Yet there she was, two feet away, gazing at him with solemn green eyes that seemed duller than usual—not that he cared for their brightness in the first place… But she seemed older, aged in the minutes of silence that had passed.

“Eh… what?” He was genuinely surprised—See? He could do ‘genuine’—that she had been sharing his thoughts. A bit daunted too, but he could not complain.

“You have been here for hours, Earl Trancy,” she said. “It is only a matter of time until someone notices you are nowhere to be found.” She smiled sheepishly. “And I doubt it would be difficult for that someone to put two and two together.”

He processed this, imagining the look on Claude’s face if he knew where his master had been for the past few hours. A small part of him relished the thought of the butler’s rage—it was rare for him to show emotion at all, so any bit of change was bound to be interesting—but the other ninety-nine percent of him grudgingly knew that enjoyment in any lapse of the demon’s would ultimately be short lived and… well, not particularly enjoyable. Already feeling the sting of Claude’s hand on the side of his head, Alois sympathetically rubbed at his temple.

He fidgeted. “Right then,” he said awkwardly, standing up and brushing off his shorts. Doing so, he was thankful the earth did not pitch sideways—his dizziness had worn off, and at the best opportune time, no doubt. “I will do just that.”

“You do not have to,” Lady Gallagher said quickly, scrambling to her feet not at all graciously. “Please do not think I am shoving you out, I just—” She blinked, suddenly tilting where she stood. A moment later and she was stumbling to the side—Lady Gallagher, it seemed, had not been as lucky as her fiancé.

On instinct, Alois caught her, grabbing her arms before she really started to fall. He had to, for had she hit the stone and cracked her head open, Alois would never have heard the end of it. Not to mention the balcony would forever have an unattractive bloodstain…

The way he caught her, they looked like they could have been dancing, frozen with the fair maiden caught in a romantic dip, just like in the fairytales. Both were shocked at first, frozen in the stance begotten customarily in romanticized circumstances. Alois was the first to recover, and he played it off well.

“You were saying?” he said smoothly, trying not to laugh as Lady Gallagher flushed a ruby red darker than the walls of her room.

“Never mind…” she said in a quiet voice. Shaking her head slightly, she fidgeted in his grasp. “I think you can let me go, now...”

She righted herself, still completely red, and stepped back, mumbling a thank you with extreme embarrassment in her voice.

Alois bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Well then, Lady Gallagher,” he addressed her with returning grandeur, bowing and tipping an invisible hat, as he had done to Claude so many hours ago, “Farewell and good night!”

Without another thought, he twirled about and made for the door.

“Good night, Earl Trancy...”

Alois stopped in the balcony doorway, one hand resting on its frame, and felt himself pale. There was something about the tone in her voice. It had seemed so cheery before, so infuriatingly spirited... Now, in comparison, as he was finally making his escape from this foolish camaraderie hullabaloo, she sounded utterly devastated. Fighting with himself in his mind, he drummed his fingers on the doorframe. He could not leave her like this; this meeting could not end on such a sour note. He needed to add a little sugar—sweeten things up, even just a little.

He turned, surprisingly finding his throat dry. He swallowed, then croaked, “Alois.”

She looked up, her expression questioning. He felt a flutter in his gut. _Perhaps this was a bad idea..._

“You can... call me Alois, My Lady...” He avoided her gaze, wanting now more than ever to bolt back to his room and hide.

As if it could not get any worse, the wench bore a mischievous grin. She narrowed her eyes, challenging him, and said, “You have to call me Aoife, then.”

Alois clamped his mouth shut. _This_ was _a bad idea,_ he thought.  Clapping his hands together, he altogether ignored her reply and said tensely, “Forget I mentioned it. Good night, _Lady Gallagher._ ”

She shook her head, arms folded. Waving a hand and turning away from him, she said, “Yes, yes. Good night...”

He wanted to say something more, but he was tired, not thinking straight, and feared he would say something he would regret, so he marched off, holding his breath till he was halfway down the hall, safe within the cushy walls of his domain.

He left so quickly, he did not hear his fiancée mutter under her breath exactly what he wanted to hear:

“Sweet dreams, Alois.”

 

* * *

 

Never had Alois’s room felt so inviting. Something about it had always irked him—red (and gold, for that matter) did not suit him. It had taken him years to understand that—why he felt so out of place in his own habitat, his supposed-sanctuary.

But now, he relished its privacy, its tranquility. Door shut, he leaned back against its smooth wooden surface and sunk down to the floor, imagining that he would fall asleep this very moment, on this very spot, hoping to dream away this whirlwind night.

Which would have surely happened, had a sinister, dark mass not materialized in his hazy, half-lidded vision. It was sitting on the bed, and despite Alois’s fatigue, he still gave a yelp as he focused on the face of Claude Faustus.

“Have a nice night, Your Highness?” The butler’s arms were folded, gloved fingers tapping his arm and brow knit. Alois refused to meet his eyes.

“W-what are you talking about, Claude?” Alois got to his feet, feeling nervous. To his chagrin, it showed.

“After all these years in your service,” Claude droned, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “do you truly believe I would not be aware of all the happenings in this manor?”

Alois shifted his weight, feeling awkward in this reversed position. _Why is he sitting? Stand, damn you!_ He could not find his voice to express this sentiment, and he blamed it on his sleepiness. If he could just crawl into bed...

Claude just stared at him, making it exceptionally hard for Alois to ignore those eyes, piercing him like golden spears. The butler knew about his time with Lady Gallagher that night... and Alois did not particularly care as much as he should have. _Could I just... sleep please? I do not want to think anymore..._

With a glance to the floor, Claude stood, towering over his master. Funny, though Alois had grown over the years, Claude still seemed just as tall—maybe even taller—in comparison. Would he always feel like a child in his presence?

As though a silent conversation had been exchanged between them—one Alois felt partly left out of—Claude warned, “Be sure your little _escapade_ does not happen again. One superfluous act on your own could end all this. Phantomhive will be...” Alois tuned him out after that, recognizing the butler’s usual spiel.

Alois rubbed his eyes, knowing he should yell and retaliate, demand his butler to scamper back to his rightful place as his pawn. Instead, he sighed and unwillingly complied, “Yes, Claude... Never again.”

“Good,” Claude said shortly. In three long strides he reached the door, and without turning around he gave a final message.

“Rest, Master.” He sounded calm—concerned, even, had Alois not known him better. “We are having visitors tomorrow.”

That got the young man’s attention. “Visitors? Who?”

Claude opened the door, and just before closing it behind him, he said, “Earl Phantomhive, of course.”

Alois’s jaw dropped. He was coming? Of his own volition? What had Claude put in that letter? Blackmail?

Again, Alois would not put it past him.

A mixed wave of emotions rushed through the earl’s mind, its tide pulling him toward his bed. Too many things were happening—with the wench, with Claude, now with Phantomhive—and his stamina was completely drained. He was confused, and he hated it.

Not bothered by the fact that he was still in his day attire, Alois collapsed onto his bed, scrambled beneath the covers, collected all his thoughts and shoved them to the farthest reach of his mind, and instantly fell asleep.

Never had he felt so welcome in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and one more before I finally post this thing  
> by the by, The Slightly Chipped Full Moon is by Yucca  
> Yeah that's not mine. The shoddily rhymed one? Yeah that's mine.
> 
> 7/1/16: edits have been made! just slightly. nothing big. don't worry about it c:
> 
> \--Kiiro


	9. Reassurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where there's more talking and breakdown!Ciel is literally me during finals week.

_A poem ought to be well made at first, for there is many a one to spoil it afterwards._

_\--Irish Saying_

Ciel was used to the antics of his erratic fiancée. Through the years he had dealt with the tantrums, the sobbing, the dress-up parties, the meaningless and rudimentary arguments—he had seen it all and had grown to find each instance endearing.

“I want to go! I want to go! _I want to go!”_

Sadly, he now found that his previous outlook on the young lady’s actions had been quite terribly…

_“Ciel! I want! To go! With you!”_

…wrong.

Ciel pressed his eyes shut in an attempt to quell his growing headache. “Elizabeth…” he moaned.

“I want to go! Take me with you, Ciel! _I want to go!”_

His arm jerked as his fiancée pleaded and yanked at his sleeve. He resisted the urge to snap at her. Instead, he crossed the courtyard—Lizzy noisily in tow—to Sebastian, who was holding open the carriage door and looking on with a pleased grin. Ciel resisted the urge to snap at him, too.

“Sebastian...” he said over Elizabeth’s shouts, “I am getting a migraine.” His entire frame shook as the young lady began to bounce up and down.

“I want to see Aoife, Ciel!” she cried. “Please let me come with you! You owe me from last night! You _owe_ me!”

Ciel sighed, grimacing as his top hat nearly fell off of his head. Now, he regretted having read Trancy’s letter in front of Lizzy. He recalled the previous night with a shudder...

* * *

“So then Madame Gallagher took the last of the teacakes—Mother was not too happy about that… I cannot complain though. One more cake and I would have burst! But then Mother and the madam had a terrible row that lasted the good rest of the day… Can you imagine how that went, Ciel?”

“Yes, Lizzy.”

“Thankfully they made up when we visited my home. Mother wanted to introduce Madame Gallagher to—”

“Mhmm.”

“Ah… and… Father did not recognize the madam at first, but after a moment he remembered Aoife’s father and immediately requested she stay for dinner. Oh, by the way, Ciel—Edward says ‘Hello.’ ”

“Mhmm. Yes.”

“Well, it was more along the lines of ‘Are you still engaged to that runt?’ but I am sure it was meant as a greeting…”

“Of course, Lizzy…”

Elizabeth paused in her story, looking across the dining room table. “Ciel?”

Silence.

“Ciel?!”

The earl shuffled his food around on his plate, not looking up at Elizabeth. Rather, he motioned to Sebastian to pour him more wine. Sebastian did so, and the two shared a few words before the earl brought the wine to his lips. If the butler was aware of his master’s ignorance, he did not let on.

Puffing out her cheeks in defiance, Lizzy said in a loud voice, “You know, Ciel, I know you are not listening to me, so I wonder what you will do if I say something so outlandish such as, say, I am _having a baby!”_

An arc of burgundy sprayed across the table as wine spewed from Ciel’s lips. The next few moments for him were full of choking and sputtering. Sebastian, on the other hand, showed a more subdued reaction: genuine, wide-eyed shock.

Finally, Ciel managed a hoarse _“W-what?!”_

Lizzy prided herself with a grin as the earl’s face grew redder than his wine. _“Thought_ that would get your attention.”

Dumbstruck, Ciel let out a breath—one of relief, it seemed—and snatched a linen napkin from his butler’s grasp. Sebastian visibly relaxed and shook his head, thoroughly amused.

“Y-you nearly gave me a heart attack, Elizabeth,” Ciel stammered, wiping his chin clean. “D-do not do that again. Ever.”

Elizabeth nonchalantly took up her own wine glass and said in a sweet tone, “Then pay more attention, _darling,_ lest you miss something of even greater importance.”

“Fine,” the earl said sharply, sitting up further in his chair. In a piercing falsetto, he addressed his fiancée lovingly. “How was your day, my sweet?”

Lizzy set down her glass with a clatter. “Ciel, honestly, _what_ is the matter with you?”

“I have a lot on my plate right now, Lizzy and—”

Lizzy interrupted, pointing down the table at him with her fork, “I can see that, but perhaps if you actually tried eating a little more rather than poking your food about, you would have _less_ on your plate.”

Sebastian, who was pacing the table’s length and taking away empty platters, chuckled to himself. For Ciel, it took a moment for Lizzy’s statement to sink in. Once it did, though, he sighed, leaning his head on his hand. “Elizabeth...” he groaned, not at all finding the young lady funny.

“Forgive me,” she said, glumly gazing at the plate in front of her. “I am in a rather silly mood.”

Her tone was not silly-sounding at all.

Feeling a pang in his chest at the sight of his fiancée’s somber demeanor, Ciel sighed. As per usual, his priorities had run awry, and his fiancée had ended up with the short end of the stick. He looked to Sebastian for help, but the butler had made a point to ignore his master and leave the room.

Ciel glared at the closing door. _Bastard,_ he thought.

“Lizzy…” Ciel began, scratching the back of his head. “Please try to understand. I’ve tried not to let on about this, but Funtom…” He hesitated. “Funtom is not doing too well, as of late.”

Lizzy had her full attention on him now. She set down her fork and stared at him intently.

“To be honest, I am worried, Elizabeth. You have seen the papers, I am sure. You have seen how Trancy is growing, snatching up one company after another. There is just something strange about how much _his_ business is growing and how _mine_ is going to the dogs. You _must_ see it, too.”

“Ciel, I… I just cannot believe he would sabotage you like that. It is so… indirect. Not like him.”

“You forget our armistice, Lizzy.” He smiled ruefully.

The young lady raised a brow. “Army-sta-what?” she asked.

“A _truce._ ” He sighed. “Of course you would not know of it. There is no use hiding it anymore from you, really. Years ago—at the time Trancy nearly died… you remember that, do you not?”

“Died?!” Lizzy exclaimed, bringing a hand to her lips in shock. “What do you mean he ‘nearly died’?! How did _that_ come about?”

Ciel swallowed, not particularly wanting to get into the exact details of how Earl Trancy had been fatally injured. Of course, Ciel had had something to do with it. He always did. “I guess I kept that from you, then.” He grimaced. “For good reason, too. I _still_ cannot believe the bastard lived.”

“Ciel Phantomhive,” Lizzy seethed through gritted teeth, “what _else_ have you kept from me, hm?!” 

“Ah…” Ciel cast a momentary glance to the door out of which his _demon butler_ had left. “Nothing else comes to mind…”

“Mhmm,” Elizabeth huffed.

“Anyway,” Ciel said with purpose, spreading his hands on the table, “Trancy _miraculously_ recovered. I do not know how, I do not know why, but several months later—I am sure you remember those several wonderful, Trancy-free months—I got a letter. He proposed a truce—”

“Wait, it was _his_ idea?!” Lizzy leaned forward, relishing this new gossip.

Ciel pouted. “I would have thought up something similar sooner or later, had reason come about…”

“Of course you would, dear, now go on! What is this army-stance about? And what does it have to do with Aoife?”

Ciel was about to correct his fiancée’s pronunciation, but blinked at the sudden mention of the Irish newcomer. “I never said that—”

“Please, Ciel,” Lizzy interrupted, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her wine. “In the years that you and Earl Trancy have been at each other’s throats, not once have you expressed as much concern about anything as the days since Aoife set foot in England. I may not see it, but I can tell you strongly think Aoife has a part to play in all this—with you, Trancy, the truce… Now tell me, Ciel—for I would like to not be in the dark anymore—what is this truce, and how is Aoife connected to it?”

For several seconds, Ciel sat there, dumbfounded. Was he dreaming, or had he just heard his ditzy fiancée give the most intelligent and straightforward dialogue of her life? If possible, Ciel loved her just a little more after that.

“Very well, Lizzy,” he said, still a little mystified. “The letter Trancy sent to me proposed a truce where we would basically stay away from each other. As you very well know, Trancy has a bit of a vendetta against me. At first I had no idea why, but after a time, the feeling became mutual and we were on the verge of killing each other.”

Lizzy stared at him, piecing the fragments of Ciel’s story together in her mind. She was not surprised in the slightest that her fiancé had nearly killed a man, given his _other_ line of work.

Ciel continued. “So yes, his near-death was my fault, I will admit that much. This truce, therefore, was basically made to keep us away from each other. It was a strange move by him, but I found it the best idea at the time. I had… other priorities… and preferred to not deal with an irksome fly of his caliber. As such, I stayed away from him, he stayed away from me, and we went on with our lives in relative peace.”

The way Ciel explained, this armistice could have seemed a little unnecessary, but in truth, he was leaving out some details he knew he could never tell Elizabeth. Such as, perhaps, the fact that neither earl nor butler could trespass in the other’s “territory”—the quest for a more appropriate term had turned up bare—under punishment of annulment of the truce. Though seemingly extreme in its terminology, the fact that the two butlers were, in fact, _demons_ made it seem all the more appropriate.

 _Demons are a tricky breed,_ Ciel thought, recalling his past experiences with one Claude Faustus with a grimace.

Ciel sighed. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “Trancy must have found a loophole.”

“A loophole?”

“I suspect now that he is trying to take me down by crumbling Funtom down to nothing. He really is trying to buy me out. Make me lose power.”

Elizabeth raised a brow.

Ciel leaned forward. “That is bad, Lizzy. If he buys out Funtom, we will, in essence, be living off of the Trancy name.”

There was a pause as the true horror of such a circumstance sunk into Lizzy’s head. She coughed, staring at her plate of half-eaten food, and said meekly, “That _is_ bad.”

“Mhmm. You understand my worries now, I take it?”

Elizabeth nodded, and for a long while, the two ate in silence, engaging in more pleasant chatter than the taboo topic of Alois Trancy. Their solace, unfortunately, was short lived.

The door opened, and Sebastian reentered the dining room, approaching the earl with a look of urgency.

“My Lord,” he said, “a letter has just arrived for you.” In his hands, the butler held a silver tray, on which sat an unopened envelope. Its wax seal was hidden from view, but Ciel already knew who had sent it.

Ciel wiped his chin on a napkin, then took the letter and ripped it open. A flare of anger swelled inside him, as the letter was, indeed, from Alois Trancy. He scowled, staring at the swirling script with distaste.

“Ciel, who—” Lizzy began, but a solemn look from Sebastian quieted her.

“Trancy,” Ciel said stiffly. “Responding to my letter, it would seem...”

At this, Lizzy stood and hastened from her seat to his side, peering over his shoulder at the letter. Ciel did not try to stop her, though a small voice in his mind—coupled with a worried look from Sebastian—told him he should have. He pushed the feeling aside, his attentions focused now on the letter. He read silently:

_From the desk of Alois Trancy._

_Earl Ciel Phantomhive,_

_I was delighted to receive your letter. It has been far too long a silence between us. I offer my sincerest gratitude for your having taken in my guests for the night. Pertaining to your statement regarding my relation to these ladies, yes, I am to wed the young Lady Aoife Gallagher by the end of this year, as per request of the Queen._

_I thank you for the congratulations, and agree to the utmost that we meet soon. I propose that you call upon Trancy Manor tomorrow morning. Such an appointment will be an absolute treat, and we may discuss whatever you desire—be it business, senseless chatter, or my betrothal to the fair Lady Gallagher. I trust you have become acquainted with her during her stay? I do hope she and her interesting travelling party were well-behaved and entertaining._

_I look forward to our meeting tomorrow._

_Signed,_

_Earl Alois Trancy_

Ciel finished reading quite a ways before Elizabeth did, and the look on his face was verging on murderous. Half a minute later, the young lady broke the tense silence.

“He...” she started, sounding perplexed. “He has invited you to Trancy Manor? _Tomorrow?”_

Letting the letter drop to the table, Ciel rubbed at his temple, feeling the onslaught of a brutal headache. “It would appear so, Elizabeth,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“W-well,” Lizzy stammered, “you plan on going, of course?”

A feeling of utter dread knotted in the earl’s stomach. Of course he planned on going. _Of course_ it had to be on such short notice, giving him no time to mentally prepare for this ordeal. Of course, of course, of course. He let out a long breath and, closing his eyes, he muttered, “Of _course_ I do.”

After a beat of silence, Lizzy unexpectedly squealed, “Brilliant! Oh, I _must_ go choose tomorrow’s outfit! It will be so wonderful to see Aoife again; this week has been _dreadful!_ Ta, Ciel!” And before her befuddled fiancé could object, she nearly flew out of the dining room with overflowing glee.

Ciel’s dread only worsened as the door swung shut behind the last lacey frill of Lizzy’s dress. He did not know what to say or think. In a fit of despair, the earl dropped his forehead to the dining room table with a _thud_ , right atop the damned, perfumed letter that was the root of all Ciel’s strife.

Behind him, Sebastian just shook his head.

* * *

Back in the present, Ciel frowned and took off his top hat (it was bound to fall off at any moment).

“Take me with you, Ciel!” Elizabeth’s pleas continued. “Please, please, please! I want to see Aoife!”

“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, I will not be there that long, I assure you! This is not a social visit!”

Elizabeth ceased shaking Ciel’s arm and dropped her gaze, pouting. “But...”

“Lizzy, please.” Ciel removed the young lady’s hands from his arm and faced her. “Remember what I said last night. There are things I need to discuss with Trancy. And as much as I know you wish to see Lady Aoife, it is just not the right time.”

The pout remained on Lizzy’s face. She looked so much like a toddler; Ciel could not help but crack a smile. It was a rueful smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Next time, Elizabeth,” Ciel promised, lifting her chin gently so their eyes could meet. “I give you my word. Hold me to it, now.”

It took a few moments, but eventually Lizzy’s expression softened. “Alright. And you can be sure I will, Ciel.”

Ciel gave her one more smile, fit his hat atop his head once more, and entered the carriage. As it pulled away, Lizzy shouted, “Give my regards to Aoife, will you? Oh, and make sure she has not been defiled, if you please!”

* * *

Alois’s morning had begun like any other. He woke up, was dressed and promptly lectured by Claude, and then was sent on his way to have breakfast with Lady Gallagher and her mother in the garden.

Well, the mother was gone, so that would be one pleasant difference from days past—one that he could safely accept.

Alois drunkenly sauntered downstairs, taking the same route he had taken every day for the past week; a path so familiar to him he could walk it in his sleep. He was incessantly tired this particular morning, so he was not far off.

“Good morning, Earl Trancy.”

Realizing that he had reached the garden, he plastered a grin on his face and murmured a similar greeting to the young lady.

He slumped into his usual chair with a sigh, head lolled back, grateful for the lack of chatter regularly caused by Madame Gallagher. Any moment, though, he expected the silence to be broken by _Lady_ Gallagher.

He was surprised, then, when she neither commented on his tardiness, sympathized with his obvious lethargy, nor even gave her usual “Have a nice night?”

 _Embarrassed from last night still, are we?_ he thought with a smirk, reaching up a hand to snatch the morning newspaper that would serve as his entertainment from the table. A usual task in a daily routine, yes?

No. He merely felt the metal surface of the table underneath his fingertips.

After patting the table a few more times in search, the earl sat up straight, brow knit in confusion. Where would he get his entertainment now?

One look across the table gave him his answer. Lady Gallagher—more fitting to be known as _the wench_ at the moment—was casually perusing through the morning paper. _His_ morning paper.

Alois narrowed his bloodshot eyes. _A bold move, My Lady. A bold move._

It probably was not an actual move at all, but Alois liked to pretend this was all a game, a back and forth battle of wits between him and his bride-to-be. And why not? It made it all the more fun—when it was not completely troublesome, of course.

Nonetheless, Alois wanted his morning obituary section, so he crossed his legs, casually folded his hands on the table, and coughed.

She immediately looked up from the newspaper with a questioning look on her face. Raising an eyebrow, Alois eyed the paper in her hands.

After a moment, the young lady said, “Oh, did you want to—? Sorry, here you are.” Expertly folding the inky pages, she held out the bundle for the earl to take. “It was there when I got here, and I had forgotten the book I was reading in my room, so I thought—”

“Thought you would take advantage of last night, hm?” Alois said, flipping the paper open to the obituaries.

“Take advantage?”

“That is right.”

“What do you mean by that, then?”

He shrugged. “You have grown comfortable, so you thought you could take what was mine. Is that right?”

Lady Gallagher blinked, and her brow twisted as if she were trying to discern an insult from his words.

“I will be honest,” she said, choosing her own words carefully, it seemed, “last night _did_ make me a bit more accustomed to living here…”

She trailed off, and Alois had the feeling she was going to say ‘living here _with you_ ’ but stopped herself.

“Really, now?” Alois said, peering over the top of the newspaper with a teasing grin.

“Yes,” she replied matter-of-factly, taking a defiant sip of her tea. “It was fun,” she added softly, her cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink.

Alois sat with broadened shoulders after that. Maybe he was a ladies’ man, after all. Though, there was a slight twinge in his gut when she said ‘fun.’ That word again. So she had felt it, too…

But what did that mean? Was he finally making progress? Was she falling for him? Perhaps, though… It could have just been a mistake in his judgment. A fluke. The night air had him loopy last night. Surely, that was it. How could he have felt that strange giddy happiness? He was not the one in need of wooing. Hazy night air. Surely, that must have been it.

All these thoughts must have put a pained look on his face, as he heard the wench say, “Something wrong, Earl Trancy? Did you read a bad story in the paper?”

Alois shook his head, mostly to clear the scattered thoughts in his mind, and Lady Gallagher took that as an answer.

“Well, then, are you anxious about Earl Phantomhive’s visit?”

Alois looked at her with narrowed eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Hannah told me,” she replied, crossing her arms. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Alois noisily flipped the page of his newspaper. “Not at all,” he said stiffly, making a mental note to have a little chat with the maid later on in the day.

After a pause, Lady Gallagher asked, “Do you know if Elizabeth is coming?”

“I’ve no idea. Though, I should hope not. Ciel and I have business to discuss and I doubt he will want to stay long after. Cannot imagine why, though.”

“What type of business?”

Alois flipped another page. “ _Business_ business,” he said, growing annoyed, “that is none of _your_ business.”

“Yes, but what _kind_ of business?”

Folding down the top of the newspaper, Alois scrutinized the wench. “You are quite curious today.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed. She looked like she was ready to retort when a call came from the manor door.

“Master.” Hannah appeared in the doorway and hastened across the patio.

Alois made a point to glare at her as she approached him. _Annoying, good-for-nothing..._

“Earl Phantomhive has arrived,” she said, half-addressing Lady Gallagher.

Alois sat up in his chair. _So the Queen’s dog has arrived, eh?_ he thought, feeling a grin curl his lips. He looked at his fiancée and said, “It seems our little conversation will have to be cut short, my dear. I hate to leave you, but I have a meeting with a dog—er, fellow... earl... person.”

With that, he jumped out of his seat and scampered into the manor, leaving behind him a pouting fiancée and an untouched pile of breakfast pastries.

* * *

Ciel hung his head low as he approached Trancy Manor. He hated the place, and was damn sure he would cut out his good eye before allowing anyone to witness his being there. Climbing the steps, he felt an overpowering feeling of dread. The last time he had seen the flirtatious earl in his own home, he had been completely intoxicated and was making passes at anyone he could find—regardless of gender, unsurprisingly. The thought made Ciel scowl. Why he had agreed to go to a party at his rival’s manor, he would never know.

“The last time we were here,” Sebastian said from behind him, as if reading his master’s mind, “I believe you were tailing a murderer for the Queen.”

“Right,” Ciel grumbled, remembering. “I had almost forgotten.” At least he had not been there of his own accord. That brightened his spirit a bit.

Of course, Ciel’s spirit was soon diminished again as the double front doors opened, revealing the gloomy interior of the manor and the equally gloomy-looking butler. Nearly identical to Sebastian save a feature here and there, Claude Faustus stood tall in wait for his master’s distinguished guest.

Ciel narrowed his eyes. “Faustus,” he spat, as though the name were a curse.

The butler must have taken it as a greeting—optimist that he so _obviously_ was—and bowed his head. “Earl Phantomhive.”

When he picked his chin up again, Ciel saw that Faustus stared at him with a hungry look in his glinting eyes. A moment passed, and the butler retreated to the dim foyer, holding open the door for the earl to enter.

Ciel let out a long, drawn sigh, blowing at a tuft of hair as he did so. “Same old, same old,” he grumbled to himself. He imagined Sebastian would have chuckled at that—he so often found amusement at his master’s expense—had they been under different circumstances.

With Sebastian in tow, Ciel entered the manor. As he brushed past Claude, he heard the butler mutter, “So lovely to have you visit.” He shuddered. _Goddamned, spine-chilling bastard..._

Ciel had barely taken more than three steps into the foyer when he heard a shouted greeting that made his hair stand on end.

“Hello there, Ciel!” called the blond-headed arse himself, clicking into the foyer on his obnoxiously high heeled boots. On his face was the same _hungry_ grin as his butler’s. The nerve of these people, making their want for him so noticeable. It made him sick.

Ciel scowled and took off his hat. “Trancy,” was all he said.

Alois Trancy bounded up to Ciel and piped, “And how are you, then?”

Ciel did not answer. Rather, he looked his rival up and down. They were the same height, now. In the past, Trancy had been a bit taller—a fact that Ciel had indefinitely denied.

“Oh, come now, Ciel. I have not seen you in months! _Months!_ Really, how have you been?”

“Might we just skip the pleasantries, Trancy?” Ciel snapped.

Trancy frowned. “Of course, you must be a bit blue in light of your failing company... My deepest condolences on that. To lose one’s family business...” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “What a sad prospect.”

Ciel scowled further. With a beckoning look to Sebastian, he brushed past the effervescent earl, muttering a surly “Let’s just get this over with.” Sebastian followed closely behind as Ciel made his way to the room in which the two earls had discussed business matters at a previous encounter.

As he turned the corner he distinctly heard a chilling trill of laughter. He looked back for a fleeting second and sighed.

“We are in a house of mad men, Sebastian...” he groaned under his breath.

Sebastian chuckled. “Fret not, young master,” he said, nudging Ciel forward and further away from the foyer.

With a grin, he added in a murmur, “We are all mad, after all.”

* * *

Alois could barely keep the grin off of his face as he followed after his illustrious guest. How long it had been since he had last laid eyes on the young earl of Phantomhive.

Which was precisely the reason why this meeting was overwhelmingly crucial to the plan. Alois needed to be charming, smooth, cunning. He needed be convincing, and assure his prey that nothing was amiss. Claude’s monotonous lecture not one hour previous touched on everything Alois needed to remember. Marrying a foreign heiress? Oh, that was the Queen’s idea. What possible ulterior motive could there be, honestly? Ha! Ciel Phantomhive would slip through Alois’s manicured fingers no more!

“What are you smirking at?” Ciel snapped.

Alois looked up. Phantomhive had stopped at a door and was awaiting it to be opened for him. What a typical, proper, English earl.

Giving his most innocent grin, Alois said, “I am just _so_ delighted to see you, Ciel... We have much to discuss.”

Ciel narrowed his eyes and looked away. _He is too coy,_ Alois mused.

Claude approached then and opened the door for the two. Alois slipped in first, followed by Ciel, who was huffing and puffing already. The room they were to occupy was a small sitting room with the usual furnishings—a short table, two plush chairs, a sofa, etcetera—and no windows. It was quaint and quiet. Disruption was unthinkable.

Before Alois could sprawl out on the small sofa as he had planned, Ciel brushed past him, his shadow of a butler at his heels, and crossed the room in swift strides before perching on the sofa’s edge. Alois pursed his lips, disappointed. Not only had he lost his cherished seat, but Ciel did not have the decency to wait for his host. The nerve!

Though, Alois was not at all discouraged by the brooding earl’s behavior, as he really had no reason to be (Alois had also done far worse himself on previous encounters—just the thought of finding the slightest wrinkle in Phantomhive’s stoic façade thrilled him). After all, there he was, Ciel Phantomhive, in a Trancy Manor sitting room. _After all this time,_ Alois thought wistfully, _I expected him to be taller by now._

With a hop, skip, and a jump, Alois took a seat in the plush armchair across from Phantomhive, and beamed at his prey—ah, _guest_. Behind him, the door was shut with a light _click_ and Claude almost inaudibly moved to his side.

Ciel sat stiffly, avoiding Alois’s gaze and seemingly holding his breath. Alois found the thought amusing. _Good_ , he thought, _you only have a set number of those breaths left, Ciel. Use them wisely..._ He stifled a giggle.

“Ahem.”

Alois broke out of his reverie to Ciel’s impatient glare. He renewed his shining smile. It was not returned by the one-eyed earl.

“Tea, Ciel?” piped Alois, gesturing to the tray between them with a flourish.

Phantomhive held up a hand. “Save it, Trancy. You know why I am here.”

Alois’s smile faded. He leaned back against his chair and absently brushed away a loose lock of blond. “Business from the get-go, eh? All right, then.”

There was a prolonged moment of silence between the two, Ciel having paused deliberately to ensure Alois’s attention.

Alois raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Well?” he trilled. “You may prrroceed, Ciel.” He rolled the _r_ , knowing of Ciel’s distaste for such verbal embellishments.

Without missing a beat, Ciel began, “I want to know what you are up to.”

Alois tilted his head, feigning confusion. He held open his hands, displaying their emptiness. “I surely do not know what you mean—”

“Quit playing the innocent, Trancy,” Ciel spat. He pointed a gloved finger at his host. “You have been quiet for far too long. You are plotting something, and I will know what it is.”

Alois paused a moment before responding and allowed himself a small smile. _He is adorable when he shouts._ _Like a terrier barking at the moon._ He said, “You seem so sure of yourself, Ciel.”

“I am sure.”

“Are you?”

Ciel shifted in his seat, hesitating. Now _that_ was new. Alois always recalled the regality of Earl Phantomhive. Now, the sureness he had always held in his gaze was cracked. He seemed... desperate, uneasy. It was not plain as day on his face, but a look closer revealed the dark bruise of fatigue beneath his eye, the impatient drumming of his fingers, the taut set of his jaw.

Before answering, Ciel threw a glance over his shoulder to his butler. If Alois did not know Ciel, he would have said that the glance was one for reassurance.

Alois could relate, but he would never admit it, of course.

Ciel spoke then, a tone of confidence renewed in his voice. “Yes. I am immovably positive that there is more going on here than you let on.”

Alois sat forward in his chair again. “Very well,” he crooned. “What would you say I am doing, then?”

Ciel mirrored Alois’s pose, and with a crude smirk, said, “You tell me.”

“Forgive me; Earl Trancy, young master,” rumbled a smooth voice. Phantomhive’s butler stepped forward, eliciting pointed glares from all present. The look on his pale face seemed far from apologetic and more along the lines of mildly irritated. The gall of him.

“What is it, Sebastian?” Ciel snapped.

“It would appear to me that the present conversation has become rather... fruitless. Young master, would it not be easier to simply tell Earl Trancy of all of your suspicions rather than proceeding further with these mind games?”

Alois narrowed his eyes. Had the demon just told them to, basically, get a move on? Well, he told Ciel moreso, so Alois could not be—

“As much as it pains me to say, Your Highness, I have to agree.”

Alois whirled around at the sound of Claude’s voice. _What?!_

Claude stared down at his master, his usual bored expression more pointed than normal. Alois thought he saw a momentary glow of red behind those spectacles and his own irritation quickly shrunk away. He would rather not evoke the anger of a demon, let alone two...

Making an inquisitive popping noise with his lips, Alois lolled his head around to face his guest. With an exaggerated shrug, Alois said, “Perhaps they are right, Ciel. My sincerest apologies for delaying the delivery of your _obviously_ well-thought-out accusations against me. Please, do elaborate.”

Alois grinned—menacingly so—for he knew this young earl was trapped in his own web of paranoia. There was no proof, no concise evidence that Alois was doing _anything_ noteworthy. Any sabotage occurring within the Phantomhive business was purely the fault of a negligent head...

...and maybe that of a certain spidery demon in the shadows, as well, but who is really keeping track, these days?

Despite all this, Ciel seemed to have gained a new confidence along with the mental slap across the head from his lackey. He sat firmly, shoulders back, chin high, jaw set—and he spoke.

“I believe that you are deliberately trying to destroy me financially from the inside out. I know not how, exactly, but you, Trancy—and yes, I _know_ it is you—have been snatching up the crumbling remains of grand businesses and companies that, just last quarter, had been prospering like they never had been before. Again, I have not the slightest idea _how_ you are doing this—perhaps inside men, bribery, or maybe my knowledge of your contacts is far from a complete list—but I know, oh ho, I _know_ you are running a grand ruse with buying up these businesses under the guise of it being an act of _charity_ and _good will_. As it is, I believe it to be true that you are sitting atop a grand monopoly—you are indeed a dragon with a horde of increasingly immense wealth for _God_ knows what reason.”

He paused briefly for breath. Alois quickly swiped a cake from the tray, reasoning that all good shows require treats for optimal enjoyment. Ciel continued:

“As such, I could not help but notice that there have been shortcomings in various areas of Funtom. The signs that plagued the companies that have since died off—the riots, the plummeting sales, the sudden need for investors’ backing—have begun to show their ugly mugs to me. And I find it... intriguing... yes, intriguing, that I” —here, he pressed a slim, gloved hand to his chest— “am losing _my_ riches, _my_ dignity, and the rights of _my_ family name one pound at a time for reasons unbeknownst to me, only to look up and see that the one person who is not drowning in the financial turmoil of this day and age, the _one_ _person_ who could assist me in keeping my company afloat _just so happens_ to be the person who wants me under his wing the most.”

The flustered earl pointed a finger directly at his host’s face with a quickness that made Alois jump and drop his cake.

“And to top it all off, suddenly you are betrothed to a distinguished young Irishwoman. _You_ , of all people. I am sure I am not the only one to find that a touch bit strange.”

Alois blinked innocently. “It was a proposition of Her Majesty, The Queen. I merely—” He was just about to commence a lengthy speech concerning his excellence and loyalty, but the Queen’s dog cut him off—rather rudely, he might add.

“Do _not_ give me that, Trancy. I have known you for many years and this will probably be the first time you have _ever_ shown _any_ interest in appeasing or even acknowledging Her Majesty’s wishes. You are by far the least reverent of her servants, I must say.” Ciel’s features darkened, his glare becoming more pronounced. “And considering what you _really_ do, I must show concern for your bride-to-be.”

Alois leaned back against the armchair and let out a tinkling laugh, throwing a look at Claude. He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye as he said, “Concern? For the Irish girl? Goodness me, Ciel, and you think _I_ am acting strange. Since when have _you_ shown any concern for anyone other than yourself?”

Though his tone was light, Alois could not help driving the metaphorical dagger into Ciel’s soul. The plan was to destroy Phantomhive from the inside out, was it not? But the earl remained resolute. His expression had become icy, but Alois would not allow himself to fall to the cold and took up his tea with the utmost nonchalance.

Ciel leaned back against the sofa, scrutinizing Alois with that freezing stare, silent—contemplative, one could say. Alois clicked his tongue.

“Darling Ciel,” he crooned, his breath making the steam from his tea swirl about, “you fear I harbor ulterior motives with my betrothal to Lady Aoife. Well,” he piped, cocking his head to the side, “allow me to soothe your troubling mind...”

* * *

“Lady Aoife! For goodness’ sake, not this again!”

“Stow it, Bridget,” Aoife hissed, striding down the hallway with a determined quickness that made her vast mane billow behind her in fiery waves. The same brightness could be seen in her eyes as she pointed herself in the direction of a particular, occupied sitting room. “All I want to do is know what he is up to. A ten second listen will do just that, then I shall be back in the garden once more as though nothing had happened.”

Bridget skittered behind her mistress, huffing and puffing and tucking away loose locks of hair. Between audible pants, she gasped, “That is eavesdropping, My Lady! You cannot think your mother would agree—”

Aoife flashed the maid a mockingly wide grin over her shoulder. “What Mother dearest does not know will not hurt her,” she said sweetly through clenched teeth, “right, Bridget?”

“Well, I still think this is not—”

 _“Shh!”_ Aoife stopped short, holding up a hand behind her to silence Bridget. The poor woman strode face-first into her mistress’s hand, letting out a surprised gasp and nearly toppling over. Aoife merely rolled her eyes and handed Bridget a handkerchief she usually hid in her sleeve.

Muffled voices could be heard just around the next turn in the hall. She padded down the corridor with care. If Aoife was quiet enough...

A firm hand took hold of Aoife’s forearm, making her nearly yelp in shock. She whirled around to find Bridget gripping her tightly, a harsh look in her eye. Something about that look made Aoife falter—her planned eye-roll and sigh of frustration were for naught.

“Lady Aoife. I implore you. Those Englishmen are dangerous, manipulative brutes—wolves in sheep’s clothing.” Bridget’s unusually strong grip tightened. “You must not learn too much. I fear for your safety.” The fierceness in her eyes softened as she released her mistress’s arm and crossed her own two across her chest.

Aoife blinked. _Where is this coming from?_ she thought. _She has been awfully strange as of late, but this is just frightening..._

“Bridget...” Aoife said carefully, throwing a glance behind her for fear of being caught by a servant, “you are being ridiculous. I highly doubt giving a short listen is going to get me killed. So please,” Aoife lightly gripped her maid’s shoulders and turned her around, “scamper off and see if you cannot, ah, _distract_ any servants that happen to wander this way.”

Before any protest could be made, she gave Bridget a whack on the bum—the maid let out a surprised _oh!_ —to send her off, and wheeled around on her heels. She let out a relieved sigh. Despite her resolve, she could feel her heart beating furiously in her chest.

 _Come now, Aoife_ , she thought in an attempt to calm herself down, _you have done far more mischievous things than eavesdropping. This is trivial!_

Fearing another thought would deter her, she stole another glance down the hall and mentally steeled herself for the task ahead. It was now or never.

She casually strode down the corridor, staying on the pads of her feet so as to not make any excess sounds. She had the strangest feeling that one unusual click of a heel on the marble floor would draw the attention of either or both of the English butlers. She would rather avoid such pointed attention and the need for explanation. What could she say? Nothing believable came to mind.

The soft murmur of voices grew steadily louder as she approached a left-hand door in the middle of the hall. Her heart continued to pound in her chest. She could almost make out what they were saying...

“...Irish girl?...”

Aoife froze where she stood, about a meter or so from the sitting room door. _That was Alois..._ _They must be talking about me. But... why?_ Her gaze swept the floor, perhaps in search of a neatly written note from her fiancé himself detailing his discussion with his guest. No such luck.

She shook her head, scattering her thoughts. _What are you doing, girl? You have little to no time for dawdling._ Risking her position, she took two large steps toward the door as quietly and quickly as she could. The sweet tone of her fiancé’s voice immediately became clearer. She pressed against the wall adjoining the door and listened.

“...Ciel, you fear I harbor ulterior motives with my betrothal to Lady Aoife. Well, allow me to soothe your troubling mind...”

Aoife rolled her eyes. She could practically hear the sickening, saccharine smile plastered on Earl Trancy’s lips. Something about his words bothered her, though. _Ulterior motives? What?_ She leaned closer to the doorframe.

“I have no intention of bringing any ill will to Lady Gallagher. You claim that this arrangement is some sort of ‘plot’ against you...”

Aoife’s eyes widened. _Ciel thought_ what?!

“...and honestly, you could not be more wrong. Our engagement is purely the proposition of Her Majesty, as I have already said.”

Aoife nodded. She remembered the day a letter had arrived from Queen Victoria, delivered by two off-putting men in white. She had found it odd that they had traveled so far for a single letter.

“Englishmen...” she murmured offhand, then clapped a hand to her mouth, mentally chastising herself for making noise. Thankfully, she heard no one in the room approach her position. Her hand fell away as she listened to Alois continue his strange monologue:

“I understand your feelings of hostility towards me, Ciel,” he carried on, a tone of sympathy in his voice. “I truly do. We were both horrible to each other—oh no, Ciel, do not dare try to deny your guilt! You have been a bad boy, as well.”

The esteemed earl giggled. Aoife felt herself gag, and imagined that Ciel was doing the same.

“But really, Ciel... Why would I ever want to bring harm to such a charming young woman?” Aoife perked up her ear at that. “It appears that you have found her to be as such, hm? Over the time she has resided in my manor, I have grown quite fond of her. She is bright and lovely, and I can for sure see her as an excellent addition to the Trancy estate. ”

Aoife felt something swell in her chest. She backed away from the door, clasping her hands in front of her chest and trying to find the right words for how she was feeling. Finding none, she just smiled.

 _He... really does like me?_ It was the only cohesive thought her frazzled brain could produce at the moment. _There truly is something more here than just... a business deal?_ She pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling warmth flood up from her neck. She was not entirely sure what she had been expecting when she had decided to sneak a listen to the earls’ conversation, but it had _not_ been this.

She thought that, after her talk with Alois in the garden not even an hour previous, she had fallen to the earl’s bad side—she feared she had crossed some bizarre, convoluted line and their engagement would become just another arrangement. She felt... reassured, somehow... Was that it? _Good gracious, I do not know,_ she thought.

Aoife let out a long sigh and, for fear of making another sound, tiptoed back down the hall towards the garden. It took her a little while to come to terms with what she was feeling, but at last she realized that it was much simpler than anything else her mind had tried to conjure up.

She was _happy_.

* * *

“Quite the fine addition, I must say.” Alois had just finished his fourth cup of tea, and was trying to get the last drop to fall on his tongue. Once it fell, he sat up straight, as though a sudden bright idea had struck him. “Yes, yes! Just like a new chandelier!” He then cackled, clattering his cup back on its saucer.

 Ciel looked just about ready to burst. Alois was tempted to warn the earl of the potential that the beet-red scowl on his face could stick. _Hmm, better not_ , he thought giddily, _it is actually an improvement._

“Now then,” Alois said pleasantly, rising from his seat and dusting crumbs from his clothes, “I do hope I have answered your inquiries. If that is all, then Claude will see you out.”

Ciel shot to his feet, seemingly ready to argue further. His dainty mouth opened and closed like that of a fish, and the crimson of his cheeks only deepened.

Alois put a hand to his ear. “What? What’s that?” he spoke as though to a child. “Cat got your tongue?” He smiled crudely, glancing at the Phantomhive butler. He thought that, perhaps, he could spare another dagger for the Phantomhive party—or ten, given the chance.

“Come, come, dear Ciel...” he purred. “I have made no protests in your engagement to Lady Elizabeth, now have I?”

Phantomhive said nothing, though a certain tenseness could be seen in his slim fingers as he crinkled the brim of his top hat in his grip. _And Claude said I wasn’t observant... Ha!_

Alois leaned closer to the point where he could whisper in his prey’s ear. Behind Ciel, Michaelis had a stern look on his stupid-looking face. Alois could tell the demon was itching to break out his fancy, silver cutlery to dice him to bits. The thought that Michaelis could do nothing made Alois nearly shake with delight.

“About your fiancée,” he said casually, softly. “She is your aunt’s daughter, is she not?” He backed away, feigning a look of pity. “Ah, keeping to the family, are you? Could not find anyone else to get with you, eh?” Alois dropped the act, replacing it with a sneer.

Ciel looked murderous—a vein pulsed at his temple, his free-hanging fist stayed clenched around his hat’s brim while the other gripped his cane so tightly it may break in half at any moment. Alois nonchalantly backed away for his own safety, finding it the most appropriate time to wrap his arm around his butler’s. Claude did not even acknowledge his master’s presence.

“My Lord,” Michaelis murmured, breaking the tense silence. All at once, Ciel’s lividness melted away. His shoulders dropped, his face became neutral, he looked... tired.

With a sharp inhale, and not another glance towards his host—the _gall_ of these people, honestly—Ciel made for the sitting room door. He opened it himself and was about to step out when he paused and said, without looking round, “Give my regards to Lady Aoife.”

Without another word, he strode out and disappeared down the hallway, Michaelis at his heels like an obedient pet.

* * *

“My Lord...?”

“Shut it, Sebastian, I am thinking.”

“Ah... So that is the burning smell...”

“I said _shut it._ ” Ciel rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. His eye patch, having been flung away in aggravation the moment he had entered his office, lay unused in a crumpled heap by the door. “Just... stop talking for _one_ moment, for God’s sake. I am _sick_ of talking. No more talking.”

Sebastian eyed his master warily, maintaining a small distance from the young man’s desk. “But, young ma—”

“No, no, no! SHUSH!” Ciel hissed, hopping to his feet and bumping into his desk, atop which sat a nearly drained glass of wine. The contents swirled about as Ciel reached over the desk and held up a finger to the butler’s lips. Sebastian nearly went cross-eyed as he glanced down in surprise.

“This is an order, Sebastian!” Ciel said in an uncharacteristically sing-song tone. “You will shut. Your. _Gob_. And let. Me. _Think_.”

With that, the earl took a step back and dropped into his desk chair, exhausted. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark strands off his forehead. “There _must_ be a way to get him before he gets me...”

Sebastian stood rooted in place. His eyes fluttered in disbelief at his master’s behavior. For so long, Ciel Phantomhive had been the epitome of a sane individual. He was dutiful, cunning, and—usually—calm. But now...

Ciel drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, glaring at the top of his desk with hazy, unfocused eyes. “We obviously cannot attack him head-on,” he mumbled to himself, “and harming Aoife is out of the question—”

“Is it?” Sebastian asked. “My Lord, do you really think it should be?” There was a depth to his voice. Ciel could feel its rationality pierce his hazy thoughts.

The tired earl sighed. “I don’t know anymore. I-I mean, if any harm were to come to Lady Aoife with even the smallest of signs suggesting my involvement, Lizzy would surely have my head on a silver platter.”

“I would think Lady Elizabeth would prefer it to be on a stake in the courtyard in the view of passersby,” the demon joked (though something about the comment hinted at sincerity).

Ciel unexpectedly snorted a laugh. “Yes, to warn them of what happens when the fiancée of the Queen’s Dog is crossed.”

There was a dancing joy in the butler’s eyes, as though discussing his master’s mariticide was equivalent to the recount of a jovial tale. “She would no longer have use for that title, then, young master.”

“Of course...” Ciel smirked. It quickly faded as he added, “Perhaps she would be better off, then.”

Sebastian frowned, his attempt at cheering up his master having fallen flat. There was no use trying to circumvent the young man’s plight. He pressed on. “Returning to the task at hand, then, what will you decide, My Lord? Shall we break the armistice as well as Lady Elizabeth’s wishes? I do believe it is the most direct approach and will prove to be—”

Ciel held up a hand, silencing his butler. “I already said no, Sebastian. We cannot bring harm to Trancy or Lady Aoife.” He sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “I suppose we ought to focus on the latter, really—going after Trancy himself has proven to be _quite_ difficult in the past.”

“We, of all people, would certainly know that the Trancy name is not one to be trifled with, young master.”

The young earl gazed ahead of him, at nothing, seemingly deep in thought. Suddenly he rose from his chair once more and said, “The Phantomhive name is not one to be trifled with, either.” Ciel grinned menacingly. “Trancy of all people would certainly know that.” 

The butler chuckled. “Then let us prove it, My Lord.”

Ciel leaned forward on the desk, occasionally tapping a finger against the wood. “We need an alternative route. Staging an accident would be too obvious, and Lizzy would catch on in an instant. We... Sebastian, we do not necessarily need her dead, just... gone. Without Aoife, Trancy’s plan will be crippled.”

There was a pause as Ciel pondered this. Absently, he raised his glass and swirled around its remnants. He glanced down, about to drain the red liquid, only to pause and stare as it settled in the glass. A look of realization crossed his features. “Yes…” he said slowly as an idea began to form.

“Sebastian,” the earl said, a hint of a laugh in his tone, “we are going to scare the young Lady Aoife away. She will wish she had no business with the Trancy name.” He raised his glass towards Sebastian in a toast. “And I know just how to do it."

Sebastian stared down at his master, anticipating a grand scheme. He urged Ciel to go on, though he had a small inkling that the wine the earl had drunk thus far would hamper his ingenuity. He mentally shuddered in thought of what he might have to do.

“Tell me, Sebastian,” Ciel inquired, setting his glass down and turning it inadvertently. He raised his gaze to the demon, a conniving smile pulling at his lips. “When was the last time you were in contact with our dear friends, the Reapers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD BLESS IT IS DONE
> 
> Hope this fic finds a lovely readership on AO3. I like the layout on here more than on FF.net.  
> I of course won't get rid of my FF account. I'll just double up here. No harm no fowl, right?  
> Heh. Fowl. Wings. Cuz... cuz of the title? Geddit? ;u;
> 
> btw the title won't really make sense till the end ehehe  
> also I wonder if people are picking up on certain hints... and if they're wondering if Bridget will be useful at all.  
> who knows?
> 
> See you soon c:
> 
> \--Kiiro
> 
> Next time: Flashes of red on cheeks and past windows. Equally unwanted. I wonder which is more dangerous?


	10. Just Like the Fairy Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where the author gets discouraged and takes a year and a half long hiatus. 
> 
> Whattup gang? Anyone still hyped about this?
> 
> Alternatively summarized as: the one where the chapter is too long and gets split in two. Yep, I have another chapter ready to go this time, but I'm not gonna post that one til I have a good idea of what the NEXT one is gonna entail. 
> 
> I'M THE BEST AT PLANNING. 
> 
> So yeah. Things are starting to get weird! 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Life is not a fairy tale. If you lose your shoe at midnight, chances are you will be walking home barefoot._

_\--Author Unknown_

For the next week and a half, Aoife was on top of the world. The flowers seemed more fragrant despite their shriveling petals, the food more delectable, and she spent most of her days either reading or following her fiancé about the manor—a smile never leaving her lips. Not even the somber servants could dampen her demeanor. She was...

... _happy_.

_He truly cares about me,_ she would think giddily, ruminating on the conversation she had overheard mere days previous and feeling a light flush as his words replayed in her mind. _Charming young woman… bright and lovely… excellent addition to the Trancy estate…_

With the reassuring mantra repeatedly whispering in her mind, she, on these days, would be pretending to peruse through her latest novella, eyes very much not resting on the printed lettering before her. It would be early afternoon, gentle light beaming through the second floor windows of the library. Alois would be slumped in his chair, newspaper or upside-down book in his lap, snoozing away with a peaceful set to his face (and the occasional mischievous quirk to his lip), and she would be sitting across from him, beaming. He may have cared about sleeping more, but she would take his presence nonetheless.

On one such day, Aoife had been, ah, _casually_ watching her fiancé sleep—(she’d found something oddly intriguing about the steady rise and fall of the novel perched on his chest)—when she had noticed Mr. Faustus in the library doorway. His eyes had been hidden behind the glare of midday sunlight on his spectacles, sending a shiver down Aoife’s spine. Despite the tremor, she had given the butler a stiff smile and polite wave just as Alois had let out the loudest, most obnoxiously vulgar snore she had ever heard from a person his size (though he could not hold a candle to her father in the bodily noise department, she could assure him that).

Aoife’s eyes had widened, and she’d kept up the wave a little longer than necessary, had smiled a little too wide. The butler had not moved. She’d had a bad feeling about that.

In mild panic, Aoife had reached her foot across the floor space between her and Alois, catching the toe of his boot and giving it a rhythmic tap. _Wake up, wake up, wake up!_

The only response had been the earl’s shift in his seat, a faint mumble, and the papery sound of bending novel pages against his polished vest buttons. Aoife had dropped her foot with a sigh and a blank stare. She’d then sensed movement, and noted the butler’s piqued brow with a resigned shrug of her shoulders.

Unable to do anything more, she had watched the butler silently enter the library and, expressionless, swipe the reading material from his lord’s grasp and, without fanfare, bring it down across the back of the young man’s head with a swift _thwack!_

Alois had let out a yelp, mid-snore, and jerked forward out of his armchair, hair newly ruffled and eyes frantic. “What’shewant?!” he’d shouted in a dazed, half-awake frenzy, gaze shifting from Aoife to Claude and back again.

Aoife had immediately sunk low in her chair, book in front of her reddening face, and had struggled to hold back the giggle trying to burst from her chest.

“Whatthe… Who’sit…? Huh?!” the earl had continued to splutter. There had been the sound of a book falling into his lap and, seconds later, the sound of him swiveling around in his seat as he’d shouted, _“Claude!”_

That had done it. Mr. Faustus had not even had to say a word as his coattails disappeared into the hall. Aoife had laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes.

Nothing, _nothing_ , could spoil the mood this young man was putting her in, whether he knew it or not.

Nothing felt clearer to her.

* * *

Alois was more confused than ever.

The sun shone as normal (though later now), the trees in the garden began to drop their leaves (as they did every year), and Lady Gallagher flitted about the manor like a fairy on the wind. It was sickening.

He was making his way toward the library, where the lady in question had been meeting him at quarter-past-noon every day for “quality time,” as she called it. Now, Alois would not admit it, but he was increasingly beginning to find this “quality time” to be… well, not quite as bad as he had originally thought… But again, he would never admit it, thank you very much.

Currently, it was half-past noon. Late again, but then, Alois was never one for making deadlines. His feet clacked against the floor and echoed down the empty hall. Surprisingly, he was alone—no Claude to escort or scold him. The thought brought about a pang of—was it emptiness? hollowness? _worry?_ —in his chest. Unwilling to explore the feeling, he passed it off as hunger. (He would be sure to steal a treat—or three—from the kitchen after his rendezvous with the wench.)

At the thought of Lady Gallagher, Alois’ face twisted in a mix of befuddlement and annoyance. Ever since the day Ciel had visited, the lady had begun to show a strange attraction to Alois. Whenever he would turn a corner, he was sure to come face to face with freckles and fiery mane. He tried to form a possible explanation for her behavior, but none came.

_Am I… succeeding? Have my wooing ways bore fruit?_ he pondered, feeling a swell of triumph within him, fleeting though it may be, for soon he thought, _But… if so…_

Where was Claude?

Involuntarily, Alois’ steps slowed. Over the past few days, the young earl felt that the more he saw his cheery fiancée, the less he saw his butler. And in each infrequent instance that he _did_ see the looming demon, there would always be some sort of scolding—some reprimand against Alois’ behavior or actions (or lack thereof) that made him feel unmistakably like a child.

And he did not like it one bit.

With the ghost of a well-placed book to the back of his head lingering in his mind—(he absently wondered if the three-day old bruise still ached)—Alois reached back and ran his fingers through his fragrant, blond tresses, frowning and thinking.

_Why?_ Why the hostility? the increasing absence? If Alois was succeeding, should the demon not be celebrating? Well, celebrating as much as he could, in his own “Claude” way. The most Alois had ever seen by way of happiness out of Claude was a smile. _Once._ Though, it could have been a sneer… Alois was at an angle from the butler, so he could not really see, so perhaps the perspective was off…

The earl shook his head, dispelling the digression. Nonetheless, his shoulders sagged. His lips pouted. He kicked the floor as he trudged along. He figured he must have done something wrong again. He could not understand why things had become this difficult. He was doing so well. Phantomhive was breaking at the seams, the wench was in the palm of his hand, Trancy Co. was growing stronger by the day…

_What could possibly make Claude avoid me so much?_ Alois thought miserably. _I haven’t done anything wrong. Yes…_ The idea was appealing to him. He repeated the phrase over and over in his mind. _Haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything wrong._ Maybe the more he said it, the more he would believe it in his heart to be true.

“Haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything—”

“Well, I should hope that you haven’t done anything wrong, Earl Trancy.”

Alois nearly jumped out of his skin. Lady Gallagher stood in a doorway to his left, leaning against the frame with a vile smirk. Aside from that—an expression which she had so infuriatingly adopted over the past few days—she looked... different. The biggest difference was the severe lack of red framing her torso. Her hair had been gathered, braided, and pulled up into a twisting bun. He… found it rather charming. ( _What?!_ A voice in his head screeched. _You find it what?!_ ) Oddly, he noticed this, yet he had not noticed that he had reached the library, or that he had begun to speak his little personal mantra out loud…

“Ah…” He felt a tingling heat work its way from his neck to his ears—a slow burn as he searched for words. For once, he had no explanation that would make sense to the young woman. And so, in the silence, she spoke again.

“I am rather used to your eccentricities by now, Earl Trancy,” she said, pushing off the door frame and reentering the library. Over her shoulder, she added, “In other words, no need to explain. Think of this as a free pass.” With that, she whirled and skipped away like a child through a blooming field.

Alois stood in the hall, staring after her. “Eccentricities…?” he murmured curiously before following her.

The young lady had, in her time in the manor, made herself at home in the library. Alois found that she had a strange proclivity for reading. Of course, Alois did not mind a short book every now and again, but… to spend hours upon hours among the stuffy, dust-filled shelves? He would rather not.

Lady Gallagher was currently scampering toward the sitting area in the center of the spacious, two-story room. Her tightly-wound hair bounced behind her, losing its shape slightly. It would seem the style did not match her, charming though it may be. Alois doubted he would see it again.

Not that he particularly cared...

The young lady rounded about a polished, mahogany coffee table surrounded by plush chairs. This was the usual locale for their meetings, but something made Alois stop short. He narrowed his eyes at the sight before him. One look at the table told him that today’s differences did not end with the maiden’s hair.

Upon the surface of the table were dozens of books, varied in thickness, size, and relative dustiness, and stacked nearly to the hips of the lady standing behind them, whose face was now beaming triumphantly.

“Welcome to my domain,” she announced, spreading her arms grandly over the mountain range of tomes.

Alois put on a stern gaze. “You do know this is _my_ house, correct? And _my_ library?” He crossed his arms lightly, feigning crossness.

Lady Gallagher’s arms dropped. She seemed to sag a bit. “I meant the _books_. And... well, it was a _joke_.”

“They are _my_ books, as well.” He moved to sit at one of the chairs on the other side of the pile. “And I do hope you remember where they all go; I would rather not trouble the triplets too much with the remnants of your frivolities. _Again._ ”

The lady faked a gasp at the offense, bringing a dramatic hand to her chest. “Listen here, that was _one_ time. And I thought I told you that I would replace that vase...”

Alois smirked. “That you did, and that you will.” With that, he heaved a breath and gestured loosely to the crowded table. “So, what is all this? Are we not doing the same as we have previous days? Meaning you read and chatter away while I stare at the ceiling?”

“Oh, please,” Lady Gallagher scoffed, batting a hand at him. “You have seemed content these past few days. Plus, you have done more than stare. Meaning, you snore in your sleep.”

“I do not,” Alois defended.

The lady leaned forward and held up a finger. “Oh, my apologies. I meant _giggle_ ,” she corrected, eyes glinting. “Care to tell me what you find so funny in your dreams, My Lord?”

Chagrined, Alois was prepared to protest, feeling that heat return to his face, but the lady bounced her finger, pressing for his silence.  “Now, going back to the books, only a few of these here are yours. The others, however…” she piped, and whacked the top of a stack of books with an unnecessarily loud _smack_ that made Alois jump.

“Ah, sorry,” the wench said meekly, recoiling her hand. (With a smirk, Alois noted the abrupt change in demeanor, filing away the information for, ah, future use.) “Anyway, I brought these—well, Mother did—from home. They are… rather important to me, if that was not plain.” She let out a light laugh, lilting like a songbird, and her voice softened a touch when she added, “I had one with me that night on the balcony.”

Alois vaguely recognized the massive tome beneath her fingertips, yet he _distinctly_ remembered the rest of that night—one of music and dancing and... and _fun_... He felt a prickle in his chest as their dance replayed in his mind.

He did not realize how long he had been pondering this. With a glance upward, he noted her steady gaze on him, eyes calculating, trying to read him. Something spindly crawled up his back—or at least, that was what her searching stare felt like the longer it stayed on him.

_Say something, you imbecile!_ he thought, channeling his inner-Claude, as the real thing had since abandoned him to fend for himself in the sea of courtship nonsense.

“I…” Alois cleared his throat, grimacing as his voice cracked slightly. “I remember.”

_Oh, well done,_ chastised the inner-Claude. Alois offhandedly thought that inner-Claude should stuff it.

Something lit up in Lady Aoife’s expression—a short-lived widening of the eyes and rise of the lip that looked at Alois like he was the greatest thing on this earth. Half a second later, it was replaced by a sly grin, the transition so quick Alois second-guessed that he had seen it in the first place.

“As you should,” she said, smile growing as Alois’ own face deadpanned. She lovingly patting the songbook before shifting to her right to place her hands on another, equally massive book. “Now, while both are exuberantly important, I would like to focus on this particular one for today. Actually, now that I think on it, it would be rather nice if I could, perchance, store some of these books in the library? I have to say I am not particularly thrilled with them staying cooped up in the trunk in my room. If you could let me know when Hannah is not busy, then she can—oh, well perhaps I should ask Claude, then, should I not? Or I could just figure out the organization system you have here and see if I cannot just get the job done myself! Anyway, aside from this book there are these volumes from my father’s office that always seemed to interest me as a child and—”

_Here we go,_ Alois thought with a sigh. He had given her the benefit of the doubt, banked on the differences already seen that the meeting as a whole would be _completely_ different—to no avail.

He stifled a yawn. Two. Hardly interested in the origins of her personal library, Alois let out the occasional grunt of affirmation, feigning attention, sitting back in his chair and resting his chin on his palm. His eyes slowly began to glaze over as she chittered and twittered like she had in the days before.

Vaguely, he heard a muffled thud—presumably the wench closing one of her dear tomes in favor of reciting _such an exciting passage!_ from another. Less vaguely, Alois wondered how long he had until dinner.

He clicked his tongue, going unnoticed by the wench, realizing that dinner would not actually alleviate him of the blathering ginger. She would be talking _then_ , too. She would be skittering her chair ever closer to his—around a more naturally-sized table, this time—going on and on about things that shot straight into Alois’ left ear and out the right. _Lizzy_ this, _Bridget_ that, _Mother_ this, _Hannah_ that. _Good God,_ Alois thought, _do women ever stop talking? And about each other, no less?_

Another dull thud sounded—again an assumed tome shut—one Alois felt the vibration of up through his feet. He shifted at the shockwave, but otherwise ignored it, only marking in his mind that the wench reads too damn fast for her—and _his_ —own good.

In his daze, Lady Aoife’s voice was generally muffled, sounding like it came from underwater or a far distance. He had practice with phasing out monotonous drivel, particularly with Claude, and this was no different.

At least, he thought so, daydreaming of the pastries from breakfast and of putting spiders down Hannah’s dress, until he heard another great _thud_ and the sharp call of his name.

_“Earl Trancy!”_ the wench shouted from across the coffee table.

He blinked to attention, not skipping a beat when he said pleasantly and with practiced ease, “Yes, I was paying attention.”

The lady scoffed, barely hiding the smirk that played on her lips. “Of course you were. What did I say, then, hm?”

Alois pursed his lips in thought, tapping his chin. “Hmmm… something remarkably intelligent and insightful, of course.”

_Oh,_ inner-Claude applauded, _how smooth…_

Lady Aoife planted a hand on her hip, “I _asked_ if you had fallen on your head as a child, so yes, perhaps I did say something _intelligent_ and _insightful_ , as it _appears_ that I was correct. _”_

_…you blithering idiot,_ inner-Claude finished. Alois grimaced before feigning an apologetic smile for the lady.

Squinting, Lady Aoife held up two fingers. “Second pass today, _My Lord._ Now get over here, if you please.”

Alois shot up straight in his seat, her words a jolt. “Wh-what?”

Halfway to sitting, the lady flashed a wicked grin. “Well, if you had been paying attention, Earl Trancy, you would know that I asked you to come sit by me.” She bounced to her seat, the book she had her hands on earlier held in her lap, and patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Come, come. We haven’t got all day, have we?”

Alois was not sure he understood her. “S-sit where? What?”

The gaze she shot him then... By God, she was amused. _Amused!_ As though the person she was looking at was someone pitiable and comical all in one, not the esteemed earl of—oh, who was he kidding? He felt like the subject of pity and ridicule, sitting in his arm chair, small and stammering and butler-less. And she... she looked downright regal in her own seat, sitting tall and proud with _that gaze_ and that dark purple dress that for some reason matched his own usual attire...

_The ruffle along the collar suits her..._

...

He mentally slapped himself. How did he possibly find himself in this situation—in nearly a direct opposing image of the morning she had first arrived in his foyer? She the coy person of nobility; he the jittery, hesitant mess.

He looked down at his vest, his usual forest green that sparked a vivid memory of _her_ dress that day. With a twist of his lip he noted his missing jacket. A short glance between them revealed that, even by color, they had swapped. He made a short, exasperated noise in his throat similar to when he discovered the kitchen bare of sweets.

“Is something wrong, Earl Trancy?” she asked, voice trembling from a suppressed chuckle. “You look about as red as a strawberry.”

His head snapped up, and he shook it slightly, hoping to dispel the color he hadn’t noticed had plagued his face. “F-fine. Just...” He realized too late that he had answered her wrong. He sighed, “I am completely fi—”

“Then get over here!” she piped, giving the cushion beside her another good _whack_ and letting out a breathy laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

 “Ah... r-right,” the earl resigned, still unsure of the situation. In a fit of what he would later call insanity, he obeyed—popped up out of his seat and scurried around the coffee table to the seat indicated by his fiancée. He felt her eyes on him the entire, six-second journey that seemed to him like hours.

The lady had an elbow leaning on the book in her lap. Her chin rested on her open palm, and she mused, “Now, was that so hard?”

Alois pursed his lips and gave his best glare. “Excruciatingly.”

After releasing an infuriating trill of laughter from behind her fingers, Lady Gallagher clasped her hands in her lap and sighed, beaming at Alois with a strange excitement. “Right, now. What are your thoughts on fairy tales?”

Alois scrunched his brow, eying the book in her lap. “Knights and princesses and such?”

“Yes! And fair folk and banshees and dragons!” She leaned toward the earl, a dazzling twinkle in her eyes, lightly patting the book’s cover with each named creature. Alois backed away in fear.

“I’ve not read them since I was a child,” he lied. Truthfully, he had a hidden fondness for them. Particularly the more violent ones. “What about them?” he questioned, feeling rather fidgety. Lady Gallagher raised a finger once more—( _I swear to God I will bite that finger off if she holds it up like that again_ , thought Alois.)—before lowering it and sliding both hands beneath the large volume in her lap.

“This,” she grunted unattractively, hefting the book closer to him so that half the back cover rested on his thigh, “is a collection of Irish and English fairy tales, composited by my great-grandmother.” Her grin was ear to ear. “Father’s side,” she added sweetly.

The young earl leaned on a hand, slightly intrigued now yet reluctant to show it. “What about it?”

The lady look surprised that Alois was not as enthralled as she presumably had hoped. “Why, I thought you would find them delightful, considering how in touch with your inner child you are.” She finished with a chuckle. He countered it with another glare.

“You find me childish, then?” Alois sneered.

She shrugged. “A touch, but I find nothing wrong with that.”

Alois’ narrowed gaze slid back down to the book half in his lap. The front cover was a rich olive green, worn with age, and embellished with gold and silver filigree. It... did seem rather enticing. Lady Gallagher ran her fingers across the cover, caressing the indents and embossments. Alois felt that he was witnessing something deep and tender. He... well, _again_ he did not really know how to react. His fingers twitched, called by some force to touch this collection of stories.

“You may know already, Earl Trancy...” the lady began softly, reaching over and taking Alois’ hand. The earl froze, but allowed her to guide his hand to the book’s cover. He looked up at her, _very_ aware of how close she was. He could count the freckles along her cheek. She noticed his gaze, and the backdrop to those freckles turned pinker. She did not look away when she whispered, “...but I am quite childish, as well.”

In a slow, deliberate motion, she took the edge of the cover in hand and drew it open to the lengthy table of contents at the front of the book, Alois’ hand following along beneath hers. The cover reached and fell across the lady’s lap and, oddly, Alois felt a giddiness rise within him.

The text was black as night against the worn parchment. Handwritten, it seemed, but in a beautiful, flowing script that the earl could not for the life of him attribute to his fiancée or her ghastly mother. Mildly frustrated, Alois found he could only just read the swirls and waves of lines.

He tried to think back on the times in life when one usually reads fairy tales. As a child, yes? A parent or servant would usually read to a child. Lesser done was reading them in adulthood, which Alois, on occasion, did. Some of the titles his gaze passed over—those he could _read_ , at least—therefore struck a chord in his mind. He knew several of these stories (to no great wonder really, as it was not like these tales were very rare) but _knew_ that he hadn’t read some of them anytime recently. Surely they must have been read to him. _Surely._ But… when? And by whom?

Each time Alois tried to reach back a little further, to flesh out some shadowed memory tucked away and forgotten, it flitted from his consciousness’ grasp.

_Eh, must’ve been Claude,_ Alois settled, dismissing the thought. He directed his attention back to the lady beside him, idly aware that the fingers of his right hand were fiddling with the corner of the page, oddly eager to flip through the collection of tales.

“Ah…” he began, again unsure what to say.

“Yes?” Lady Gallagher practically squeaked.

He nodded at the table of contents with a flap of his free hand. “There, er, seem to be a lot here.”

She nodded expectantly, eyes twinkling. Was she… waiting for him to say something profound…? Was that what this was?

He glanced away for a moment—not at anything in particular, but the open door caught in his field of vision. A blur of red and freckled cheeks leaned into focus, making Alois flinch.

“And what would that mean, hm? Do not get distracted now,” she finished with a chuckle.

The proximity between the two youths had marginally diminished—a fact which Alois became very aware of rather quickly. “I-I-I… d-don’t… th… um…”

A deafening _boom_ sounded, echoing throughout Trancy Manor and very visibly shaking the walls and contents of the library. The mountain of books on the coffee table rattled and shifted, and the storybook in the couple’s laps jerked and nearly fell as Alois shot to a standing position with a yelp.

He would attribute the entirety of such a skittish display _to_ said deafening _boom_ and absolutely _not_ to the way Lady Gallagher’s eyes had started to flutter shut or the soft warmth that came from her breath so close ( _so_ incredibly close) to his skin. He felt frozen on his feet, both from shock and the sudden absence of that warmth.

Some part of him—clearly some _drunk_ part of him—wondered if their breaths had mingled together in the narrow space between them—

Alois shook his head furiously, eyes latching onto anything but the lady on the sofa. “W-wh-what the bloody hell was that?!” he cried, voice high and panicked.

There was a slow, swelling sound of Lady Gallagher inhaling, and the dull smack of paper as she shut that damned book. _Huh_ , he thought offhand, _that one sounds different from the others..._

“I’ve no idea...” she said, and Alois nearly felt a punch to the gut—why the _hell_ did she sound out of breath? “There were other sounds like that earlier, but you didn’t seem to react, so...”

Alois rounded on her, shot her a questioning look. “What other sounds?”

The wench had the audacity to let out a huff, contest his look with one of her own, crossing her arms over the book still in her grasp. “Were you _really_ ignoring me _that_ much?”

“Hey, I—”

Whatever excuse or retort Alois was going to spit out was never heard as the sound came again, this time less of a _boom_ and more of a _crash_ , louder and harsher and sending the two youths staggering into each other.

It was accompanied shortly after by the sound of a furiously whirring motor, as well as a pealing echo of crazed laughter.

The silence that followed was equally deafening. Lady Gallagher clutched at Alois’ sleeve, wrinkling the thin, white material. Unfazed by the contact (that Alois seemed to momentarily fixate on before telling that part of his brain to get a hold of itself), she eyed the earl and let out an airy, drawn-out, “What was that?”

To which Alois most eloquently replied, “Uh.”

As if on cue, a third noise rang out, much sharper and closer and grinding right onto Alois’ last nerve. He stomped his foot like a child and wailed, “Enough already! _Yes_ , we under _stand!_ Big loud ominous noise! _Thank_ you!”

“Ah, Earl Trancy?” The wench tugged a bit on Alois’ sleeve before letting go and pointing towards the other side of the room.

Scowling, Alois followed her gaze and nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of Claude striding quickly—almost inhumanly so—over the threshold of the entrance (both doors of which were now nearly hanging off the hinges, swinging lazily after having banged off the adjacent walls).

“Oh, that makes more sense,” Alois muttered casually, half embarrassed for his outburst and half relieved at the appearance of the demon. He shook his head, stepping forward to meet him. “Claude, what—?”

The butler stopped short—the abruptness making Alois blink and jerk back—and dipped into a low bow directed at Lady Gallagher.

“Allow me to offer the utmost of my sincerest apologies for the atrocious disturbance, Lady Gallagher,” Claude said in his low monotone timbre, still facing the floor. (Alois would have laughed at the uncharacteristic display were he not so utterly surprised.) “It was not the intention of the manor staff to cause such a racket with the construction and disturb your private time with our Master.”

Lady Gallagher appeared to share in that same, surprised sentiment. After a few moments of stunned silence, she seemed to pop back into herself, waving a hand furiously and nearly dropping the age-old book in her hands. “Oh, no no! It’s fine, completely fine, honestly. Absolutely understandable. There wasn’t—we weren’t—” She threw a wide-eyed glance towards the earl, and her face grew pink (well, more than it already had been moments pervious). She fluttered a hand uselessly between the two of them, coughing out a nervous laugh. “‘Private time’? We were just—well, yes um—it was—I mean, it _wasn’t—_ ” A look of panic made that pinkness drain from her face almost as quickly as it had appeared, mortified stare falling to the floor. In a squeaky voice she repeated, “It’s fine. Completely... completely fine.”

Alois had thought himself to be a mess, had thought his inner-Claude to be rather justified in his own right, but _this._ He could have applauded that performance, and would have, had Claude not sprung up out of his bow and spoke.

“If you would excuse me for a moment, then, I must discuss an important matter with my Master,” he said, not even looking at Alois. The thought brought a pout to the earl’s lip.

“Ah, of course...” Lady Gallagher nodded, held a hand out beckoning Alois to follow his butler. “I will tidy up here a bit, make sure the books are... um...”

But Claude was already leaving, spun on his heel and made for the library entrance. Throwing a glance to his fiancée, Alois skittered after, trying hard to keep a collected composure until he crossed the threshold, Claude waiting by the side of the doorway to shut the double doors behind him.

“What the _hell_ is going on, Claude?” Alois hissed when the butler turned around. He thrust out a hand, gesturing frantically to the now-closed doors. “I was just—I... was sort of in the _middle_ of something and—and...” He felt a flush creep up his neck (No, no no _no_...) and shook his head to rattle his thoughts, moving to clutch at the butler’s sleeve. “Just, what is happening? There’s no construction, that’s a damn lie. What is that noise?!” His voice cracked at that last inquiry, and he winced.

The butler’s eyes glinted, narrowed as they peered down a pale straight nose at the earl, who instinctively took a step back. In a quick motion he jerked loose from the earl’s viselike grip, sauntered quickly down the hall. In a tense tone he said, “Frankly, Master, I do not know.”

The butler’s hands flashed to the inside of his jacket and reappeared mere seconds later holding golden dinner knives, all neatly polished and glinting with the same malice that usually shone in the demon’s gaze.

Alois, left behind as Claude moved farther away, shifted in worry and called, “W-where are you going? What am I supposed to do? What the _hell_ is going on, Claude?! Is this Phantomhive’s doing?!”

Not pausing in the slightest, the butler called over his shoulder, “I do not know. For now, return to Lady Gallagher and do not let her out of your sight. And keep her away from any windows or doors, particularly on the east side of the mansion, lest she see something she shouldn’t.” And with that, he turned a corner and disappeared.

Alois stood for a few moments, whimpering and glancing around frantically, trying to decide whether he should be more frightened or furious. He ran thin fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp with a manic shake as if trying to rid it of lice (he’d had them once—a fun Spring _that_ had been). But it was no matter. He was told what to do. He had to protect his fiancée. But what exactly would that entail...?

Suddenly, the hallway vibrated with the impact of another booming crash. Yelping in fear, Alois whirled around and scrambled at the library doors, finally finding his grip on the handle and swinging it open with a grunt.

_If I die from this, I will haunt the wench for the rest of her life..._ he thought, reluctantly barging back over the threshold.

***

“My Lord, I must advise against—”

“Sebastian, for the love of all that is good and sacred in this world, if you tell me this is a bad idea one more time, I will actually sell you to the Reapers.”

The butler squinted down at the petulant earl—well, not quite _down_ , as the two were rather level in their crouched position behind a set of concerningly short bushes. “You would not.”

Ciel let out an exasperated sigh and brought his spyglass down from its position at his uncovered eye, shifting to face Sebastian. “ _Try_ me. I’m running on two hours of sleep, the headache of a lifetime—” (“I advised you not to finish the bottle of whiskey on top of the wine, My Lord.” “And _I_ advised _you_ to blow it out your arse.”) “—and anyway I am highly sure that your— _ahem_ — _friend,_ would be more than happy to take you in.”

Somewhere above them, a songbird warbled a soft tune. Somewhere a little farther off, a high-pitched, manic cackle ripped through the air like lightening, followed by a disastrous _crash_. Sebastian’s face went carefully blank, though Ciel could see the barest minute twitch of his demon’s blood-red eye, practically hear the internal scream. The thought brought him an odd sort of glee, and he went back to peeking through the spyglass at the dour expanse of Trancy Manor, humming along to the songbird’s trill.

“Be that as it may,” the butler said in a tight voice, “it is not possible. _Regardless_ , My Lord—” He paused, moving to pull a twig out of his master’s hair with a delicate hand. “—what you are doing right now is incredibly unsafe, particularly concerning proximity.”

“‘I agree,’ says Wordsworth,” said Snake, crouching down behind the two. He had been on the lookout, scoping the area for any of Trancy’s demonic staff. ( _Or playthings, more like,_ Ciel thought.) It seemed that, based on Snake’s quick return, the Trancy household had a few more pressing matters to attend to than perimeter checks.

Ciel huffed out another breath and collapsed the spyglass with a noisy shutter. He fixed the two servants with a glare. “I don’t need this from you two. This was the plan we agreed upon—” (“‘Lie,’ says Keats,” said Snake, drawing a tight-lipped eye roll from Ciel.) “—so please allow me the small comfort of seeing my arch rival’s mansion being torn apart by—”

Ciel was cut off by another sickening _crash_ , wincing as it was followed eerily by lilting laughter and a motorized whirr the trio was all too familiar with.

Sebastian hadn’t even flinched, his gaze turning ever-so-slightly smug. “Would you say that, perhaps, this particular tactic is a little... oh, what is the proper word...?” He tilted his head, feigning thought.

“‘Overkill,’ says Goethe,” said Snake.

Sebastian gave the scaled young man a cheery grin. Too cheery, Ciel found. “Thank you, Snake, Goethe.” He turned back to his master. “ _Overkill_ , My Lord.” His glance flicked above the earl’s head as yet another _crash_ rang out into the late summer air.

Ciel fought against a cringe as shattering glass followed. “N-nonsense, Seba—” _Crash._ “This... th-this is a scare tactic.” _Crash._ “N-nothing more, nothing...”

An ominous creaking sounded off on the far left side of Trancy Manor. The three men in the bushes then watched as a particularly tall pine swayed, rustling those around it, and came crashing down within meters of the manor house. Several minutes passed in silence as the three looked on in relative shock. Then, a flash of scarlet red flitted above the trees, twirling and darting from branch to branch, before disappearing from view behind the house. More vague noises of (notably lesser) destruction accompanied the maniacal laughter that again was heard.

The laughter died out, and there was silence. Ciel thought that to be the worst sound of them all.

“...less,” the young earl finished, voice gone high in nearly a squeak. He cleared his throat. “A-alright, I will admit that _that_ was a bit much.”

“‘You think?’ says Wordsworth,” said Snake.

“Shut it, Wordsworth,” said Ciel.

* * *

“Earl Trancy, where are we going?”

Aoife smirked as the earl a few paces ahead of her flinched at the question, shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at her. There was a nervousness about him now—it’d started just before he had talked with Claude. Now his hair was tousled, eyes wide and panicked, shoulders tensed.

She tilted her head, eying the way those shoulders were set: sloping down somewhat gracefully from the back of his neck; feminine almost, but still somewhat broad, like they couldn’t decide which they were supposed to be. Alois twisted slightly to peer out a window, and Aoife caught brief sight of a shoulder blade moving beneath his crisp white dress shirt.

“What?” she said dumbly, registering that the earl had been speaking to her.

Another glance thrown her way, this time more scrutinizing. “ _Now_ who’s the one being ignored?” he snapped, but there wasn’t any bite to it. “I said keep away from the windows. To answer your question, we are... um...” He trailed off, hesitating at an intersection in the corridor before making the right, further into the center of the mansion.

Silence followed, only the click of heels on marble betraying their presence, and Aoife found herself biting her lips together to keep from chuckling. She gave the earl another pass—a _third_ , for goodness’ sake—and tried again. “Claude said it was construction that caused all that noise. You did not tell me you were having renovations done.”

Earl Trancy seemed to trip over something—could’ve been a crack in the floor, or his own feet, or just air, for all Aoife knew—and let out a cough. “Ah, yes um, well... it... was an emergency,” he said slowly, rolling out the words like he was sounding them out for the first time. “Pipe leak or... foundation... something. So keep from the windows,” he finished quickly, picking up the pace of his stiff stride.

Aoife hummed an affirmation, skeptical though it was. “Alright, just... lead the way then, I suppose. To wherever it is we are going...” She let the bait hang in the air, not particularly expecting him to take it, twisting her fingers together before patting them absently among the ruffles of her dress.

Her dress. The dress she had helped design—utilizing the superior skills of a particularly boisterous tailor of Elizabeth’s recommendation—after sneaking off with her fiancé’s jacket to match the color. Was it needless? Yes. Did she really feel it necessary to do such a seemingly desperate maneuver in an attempt to at least _appear_ more at home in the Trancy Manor? Absolutely not.

Which was why she absolutely had to do it.

When Aoife did things, she never did them halfway—especially in moments of dire importance. What she deemed direly important may have... changed slightly in the previous months, but... but...

Picking up the pace to match Alois’, Aoife practically gnawed at her lip, derisively smirking at herself. There was no _but_. It was dumb. _It was dumb._ Sure, he’d taken half a glance longer at her earlier, but surely it wasn’t... Surely...

The two passed by a mirror hung in the hall, all ornately framed and coldly still, almost chiding. Aoife stole a glance of herself, leaning back a bit to stare longer so as not to break her stride too much. Hair pinned up nicely, though looser now (Hannah had done a marvelous job, but Aoife carried herself a way that no hairpin could contain), limbs and torso caressed in rich purple. It was a breathable material, movable, nonrestrictive—though not thin enough that it would let in the chill of the manor’s halls. Maybe the ruffles accenting the neckline and top of the skirt were a bit much...

She gave her head a shake, falling back into step. Later she would spend the better part of her evening realizing how well she seemed to blend in with the walls in that reflection. Not in a washed out way, no; only that the regality in her attire, her stature, her carriage... seemed to not so much _say_ , but perhaps begin to _whisper_ “Trancy.”

At the present moment, however, there were more pressing thoughts on her mind.

Such as, in a few words...

_What the hell just happened in the library?!_

A rush of scattered emotions swept through Aoife, and she had no idea where to start. What had she done? That... she... She just wanted to show Alois the storybook, perhaps bond a bit more, find another _something_ to bridge the gap between them. She’d heard her fiancé’s praise in the meeting with Ciel—the words chiming repeatedly like background music to her thoughts—and only sought to... what? Prove him right? Prove herself? Prove... something...?

She exhaled, feeling a headache brewing from the mental work she was exerting on this brisk and strange walk through the mansion. This felt like a game. All of it. She’d heard him talk about her so highly, so... did that mean she’d won...? Won the... the game—oh, this was ridiculous. She didn’t _want_ to be playing a game. Well, technically she already was, what with the political implications dragging on the coattails of her impending marriage, but _aside_ from that. If things were progressing like this...

Aoife looked up at the thin frame, the determined gait of her future husband. She thought to herself, _If there’s a chance this has more to do with than just politics, then I don’t want to play it like a game, play him like a game. I want there to be love, and I want it to be real._

Immediately her nose wrinkled. It was a cliché thought, but... could she be blamed, wanting l-... _l-love_? She mentally stumbled over the word, feeling her cheeks warm in shame or needless fear that he might hear her. Perhaps poring through her grandmother’s storybook by candlelight for several nights straight into the wee hours of the morning had not been the most ingenious endeavor.

Aoife felt her pace slow, her hands dropping to her sides limply. She had, at the very _very_ beginning of her planning this day, just wanted to place her books in their new home, and innocently bond from there—but they hadn’t even come close to working on that task, now had they?

She’d had a mind to just get Bridget to handle it—(Where _was_ she lately, anyway? Off playing with the triplets, no doubt. Aoife counted her blessings and thought it best not to complain of her absence... well, _absences._ )—but the thought of Alois begrudgingly helping her sort through and find the appropriate shelves for her little library, the thought of him reaching higher than she could and of him rolling his eyes (but still smirking) at a joke she made, the thought of getting lost in the maze of bookshelves, sneaking and chasing and laughing with him...

Well, call her crazy but that just sounded like a grand old time and who could honestly blame her, _honestly_.

(A chiding voice in the back of her mind that sounded like a mix of Bridget and Aoife’s mother called her crazy. She told the pompous duo to shove it.)

Regardless of what was _supposed_ to happen, Aoife had not expected to be bold enough to call the earl to her side (oh, how he had flushed at the mere mention of sharing a sofa with her; truly he was all bark and no bite). And _least_ of all had she expected to... to...

She felt her heart speed up, pounding quicker than her hurrying footsteps. He’d been so _close_. Closer to her than he’d ever been, even closer than when they’d danced that night on the balcony. Back in the library, on that sofa, thighs barely touching as a book lay across them, Alois’ eyes had been blown wide, staring—scared?—but... he hadn’t moved away... at least, not that she could tell. She’d felt short little puffs of breath on her skin and... and he’d smelt of sugared strawberries and floral perfume.

Recognizable now that she’d... _smelled_ it (Ugh.) up close, she wondered if... _oh._ Oh, brilliant. If she took a strong sniff of the air now, sure enough there was the hint of flowers and sweetness trailing behind the earl. Aoife pursed her lips and tried not to think about it, but in her misplaced concentration she tripped over her toes, letting out a small gasp in surprise as she stumbled out of one of her polished black shoes.

The commotion made Alois peer over his shoulder, skid to a stop. Aoife heard him heave out a breath.

“ _Now_ what? Come on, we have to—what...? Wait, what _are_ you doing?”

Aoife was currently skittering around in an odd, jittery dance, peering down in search of her shoe. “Sorry, sorry,” she said breathlessly. “It’s just—I, I tripped, and—”

A rapid tapping of a noble’s toe on marble. “Clumsy, as usual.” Aoife shot him a sneer, only to meet a strained, otherwise blank stare in return. As their eyes met, his widened, and he glanced away, face pinched. “Be easier to carry you, wouldn’t it?”

Aoife shot up straight as an arrow, feeling something patter and twist in her chest. “You would—?”

The earl scoffed. “Of course not, I’m not carrying you. That’s more for the fairy tales,” he said almost ( _almost_ ) mockingly. He seemed to ponder something for a moment, eyes squinting off to a spot above and behind Aoife’s head. A sinister sort of smirk touched his lip. “And wedding nights.”

Aoife almost swallowed her tongue. She found herself lost in a coughing fit as the young man’s raucous laughter echoed down the corridor, bouncing off the windows lining the wall to her right. The sun shone in, bright with early afternoon glare, and lightened Alois’ frame. Blond hair nearly gleaming, eyes pressed almost shut and lined with a crown of golden lashes, teeth straight and showing from behind pale pink lips stretched wide in ill-placed mirth.

Behind Aoife’s watery stare—still recovering from her episode—he looked like... well... Angel he was not, Aoife knew _that_ much, but human? Not likely, either. In the brightness of the hall, framed by wispy motes of dust, Alois had the look of something no doubt ethereal.

(That would explain a few things, truth be told.)

“There is no possible way that you could dislike fairy tales, Earl Trancy,” Aoife croaked, mostly to herself, but apparently loud enough to get her fiancé to stop laughing. He turned to fully face her, face still alight with a patronizing glee, but narrowed now—tilted, wary.

“Oh? And what makes you say that, then?” he asked. Aoife could hear, could _sense_ , the curiosity he didn’t want to admit—the carefulness to his tone, his shifting stance and arching eyebrow.

Aoife, mildly amused that he had taken the bait, mirrored his pose, hands at her hips, head tilted, gaze focused. “You’re like... a fairy. The typical trickster. Flitting about, causing trouble, having a wonderful time perhaps at the expense of—no, I take that back— _usually_ at the expense of others. I’ve seen your character many a time in the stories I’ve read. One doesn’t just fit an archetype so well without knowledge of it.” Now she matched his smirk, feeling it grow as Alois’ brow slowly sunk to a furrow.

“Trickster...” He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head, hair ruffling a bit. “Arche- _what?_ ”

Aoife stifled a chuckle behind her hand. “Arche _type_. The general concept of a character, Earl Trancy. You know,”—she counted off on her fingers—“the hero, the villain, the damsel, the voice of reason,”—she paused, pointedly eying the earl—“the trickster.”

The shade of pink Alois turned was rather endearing—he seemed to puff out his chest, draw his shoulders back more. Really he just looked like a flustered little bird fluttering in a bath.

“You think— _I’m_ not—” He stopped, taking a few steps in a circle and coughing out a disbelieving laugh. After a moment he spun on his heel and pointed at her, the pink darkening to a red. “You are getting too bold for your own good, do you know that?”

A small jolt shot through Aoife’s limbs, but seconds of mental debate later, she just grinned, holding up her hands innocently.

“I am only stating a fact, My Lord—”

“I’m not a trickster,” the earl cut in. He looked away, out the window at the rustling trees, chin high. “I’m the hero. Get it right.”

Aoife’s head reared back. So _that_ was his problem? ... _Ha._ Well, alright then. Propriety be damned.

“You _must_ be joking.”

The earl’s eyebrows shot up, and he pressed a hand to his chest as if offended. “ _Joking?_ Listen here, _my lady_ , I am a comical delight, I assure you. One of the best. I make _all_ the ladies _chuckle behind their hands_ , but—”

“Ah, yes! See? There. A mark of a trickster.”

The earl spluttered, shaking his head. Aoife pressed further.

“‘Hero,’ you say? You might need to do a bit more studying up on that role, then. It’s a good thing I did bring that storybook, is it not?” She chuckled. “Though imagine if I took on that role instead. I’d say I am a bit farther along than you are in that sense, anyway.”

There was a rather pregnant pause, Alois staring at her, processing. Aoife imagined smoke trailing out of his ears, the way his mind seemed to be working. The thought was funny, but she had a sour feeling curling up in her chest that _perhaps_ she had taken a step too far.

The earl seemed to regain his composure after a while, any sense of agitation rushing out of him as his thoughts presumably settled. The silence stretched on (a bit awkwardly, truth be told) and Aoife realized that there hadn’t been another ‘construction’ sound for quite some time. She’d begun to ponder that, her thoughts drifting, when the click of Alois’ heel brought her back to herself.

“You think you are fit to be the hero of our little story?” he said, uncharacteristically calm. It made Aoife decidedly uneasy.

“Ah,” she began, but couldn’t find anything else to say. Her gaze searched the floor for an answer, skittering around the earl’s approaching form.

“ _Ah._ ” Alois took a step forward, excruciatingly slowly. “How would you say you do that, then?”

Aoife’s mind raced. She’d certainly stepped too far. She wanted to say how well she could probably contest him in swordsmanship, how well-read she was and would always strive to be, how she had thrown herself into the whirlwind of international political _insanity_ that brought her here—but not how much it terrified her—and finally how every step she took was in place of her father, an actual hero, to whom she had always tried to prove her worth. She wanted to say all this, but she did not. She held her tongue as Alois approached her, stare fixed and waiting, feeling she had done enough already. Said enough already. That thought alone made her sick.

In a fleeting attempt at standing her ground, she set her shoulders, glared back up at him. She cleared her throat when he was a meter or so away, but he spoke instead.

“Perhaps you could show me instead, hm? Since I’m so _terrible_ a hero,” he said, and grinned. By God, he _grinned_ , but Aoife couldn’t read what else was in the expression. For surely _surely_ there was something else.

She’d barely registered what he’d said when he took another step, and instinctively, Aoife matched him, stepping back in a little defensive dance. (Offhandedly she noted that she hadn’t stepped on his foot this time. A new record!)

There was a soft ruffle, and an odd pull as Aoife moved. She glanced down, blinking as her shoe appeared from beneath her skirts. Looking back up, she saw Alois had noticed, as well.

The earl peeked from beneath his lashes at her, a hint of a smirk back on his lip. _How many times in ten minutes would this man smirk, honestly?_

With a short sigh, Aoife moved to pick it up, but faltered as her fiancé held up a hand. Silently, he bent down, hooking a slim finger by the heel and picking it up himself. But... instead of standing up, of dangling it in front of her with upturned eyes and pursed lips, of sighing and drawling a “Here,” and holding it out to her like it was a dead fish... _ha_... instead, he dropped to a knee.

Ah, how to describe how Aoife felt at this moment. To say the breath was knocked out of her, coupled with an electric shock up her spine and a tenseness to her limbs and a burning up her neck and ears... would that be enough? Probably not, but we would be here for days describing every minute reaction of Aoife’s as her fiancé dropped to one knee in front of her, head lifting to fix her with an infuriatingly calm gaze. Was that a sparkle in his pale blue irises? For her sake, she hoped not.

With a flourish, he held out the shoe for Aoife. It was part of an old pair she had, not the highest of heels, short lacing at the top—previously black but re-laced at her request with a deep purple ribbon. She stared at it, eying each bend of the silk ribbon, and nearly jumped when Alois spoke.

“This is something a hero would do.” He smirked up at her— _again._ He did it _again,_ for God’s sake. “Is it not?”

Aoife froze, lips parted, disbelief overshadowing any reaction she should have had at his snarky comment. “I... suppose so,” she managed, unmoving until Alois piqued an eyebrow, lifting the shoe a little bit as if to ask _are you going to give me your damn foot or not?_ With a jerk of her tensed joints, Aoife lifted the front of her skirts, reaching out a stocking-clad foot to slip in. Alois readjusted the ribbon with delicate fingers once she set her foot back down.

With a sigh (as though he had put in some sort of physical _effort_ ), the earl sat back on his heel, shaking his head to move his bangs back in place before raising it to meet Aoife’s gaze.

“Thank—,” Aoife said, just as Alois had started to say something. They both paused, eyes widening, before breaking into uneasy chuckles. She tried again. “Ah, thank you... for that. Um, what were you going to say...?”

There’s a moment of brow furrowing, of spine straightening, before Alois settles back into that mischievousness of his, a thought seeming to spark in his (absolutely infuriating) brain.

The remaining logical mote of Aoife’s own brain scoffed, thinking, _Lord to be, if he spouts out some drivel like “It appears you’re a perfect fit,” or something of the like, I swear I’ll kick—_

But Aoife did not get a chance to figure what part of Alois she’d kick. Shame, that.

An ear-piercing crash sounded just behind Aoife, coupled with shattering glass and a rushing shockwave that sent the young lady stumbling forward with a shout. Alois, face a picture of shock, caught her by the forearms, gripping tight and staring at her, not quite as close as he had been in the library, but enough to give Aoife pause (as well as a brief view of very _very_ faint freckles along the earl’s nose).

Giving her a once-over to check for immediate damage, Alois snapped his gaze to over his fiancée’s shoulder. This close, Aoife felt his quick intake of air, hear the hissed curse under his breath.

She also heard something like, “Claude’s going to kill me,” before she was suddenly being pulled down the hall, made to run, feet stamping on marble but immediately drowned out by a second shattering crash as another window burst. Then a third. A fourth.

And they were getting closer every time.

Aoife felt her heart pound, lungs working to drag in enough air to pump her legs faster. Frantically she tried to call out to Alois, shout to him over the din following behind them, but her throat decided taking in enough air to breathe was more important, so any sounds that came out were more like pathetic gasps.

As they ran down this unfortunate expanse of a hallway, Alois threw glances behind him—increasingly panicked glances. With each one, his grip on her arm tightened. It was rather cumbersome a position, and the earl may have noticed, as he shuffled to Aoife’s other side, running between her and the windows. At one point Aoife vaguely noted his arm over her shoulder, forcing her to run couched to avoid the spray of thin glass shards. She could register this later; she was more preoccupied with not getting caught by whatever was behind them, by not getting hit by flying glass, and by the tears starting to sting her eyes.

Oh, and by the spine-chilling laugh that arced and echoed behind them and rattled around in her head. She was a bit preoccupied with that, too.

Finally, _finally_ , they reach a bend in the hall, an end to the windows, and they turned, skidding on the slippery tile. With the sudden lack of direct sun, Aoife blinked, disoriented even further. It was at this point that she was able to cast her own glance over her shoulder, but all she saw was residual glass dancing across the floor and a distant streak of scarlet.

She blinked again, looked again, but it was gone, whatever it was. Disappeared into the trees.

She must have imagined it.


	11. Reaper, Onstage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where FINALLY I GET TO WRITE MY FAVORITE KUROSHIT CHARACTER GOD BLESS. 
> 
> Also Alois makes a choice on his own for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, in this story said fave character (you'll know who lol) goes by they/them pronouns. I'm not saying other interpretations are wrong, this is just how I see the character since I've heard/seen them go by a few different pronouns over the years. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_It’s not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe._

_\--Irish Saying_

Claude considered himself a sensible being. Logical, forthright, driven. A blank slate purely with a final goal in mind. Despite this, he _felt_. Not often, and not willingly, but he felt. In all his years as a demon, Claude had experienced anger (more often than not), had experienced disappointment ( _recently_ more often than not), had experienced longing, craving, _needing_ (recently... _frustratingly_... more often than not).

And as he stood on the peaked roof of Trancy Manor, perfectly poised and unwavering on the slanted surface, he found that he felt... well, something more akin to seething hatred with a light sprinkling of confusion. Something he had only ever felt once before and would rather not feel again.

Nonetheless, there he stood, bearing the strength of the afternoon sun in an otherwise cloudless sky, practically stumped regarding the whereabouts of his less-than-helpful subordinates, among...

The butler sighed, long and low and barely audible over the ambient laughter and whirring that had been intermittently plaguing his ears for the past half hour. Hannah and the triplets were high on his list of Current Problems... among _other_ things.

Something inhumanly fast rushed behind Claude, causing his hair and coattails to whip and tousle in a frenzy. Claude whirled, sinking to a crouch, staring after the blur as it weaved between peaks and chimneys. He drew out more golden dining knifes from the depths of his jacket—several of their likeness already having peppered the shingled expanse of the roof.

For the briefest of moments, the laughter crescendoed as the blur—offensively colored, he shall add—blew past, teasingly close, and Claude’s jaw instinctively tensed. His grip on the knives tightened mere seconds before he let them fly, but the blades lodged in the bark of a nearby tree as the blur disappeared in a mass of rustling leaves just beside it.

Claude’s mouth twitched, and a faint glow threatened behind his irises. He drew to his full height, adjusting his jacket, his gloves, the hair that had fallen out of place. He willed the tenseness in his shoulders to subside and cast a blank but steely stare at the deceptively innocent thick of forest beside the manor house.

“If you could be still for just one moment,” the butler said in a tone more clipped than to his liking. He would rather not betray how agitated he had become. Not to—

A rich, clucking laugh broke from the foliage to Claude’s left, but when its owner spoke several moments later, the voice came from just behind him—far too close to his ear than he would care to admit.

“For you, darling?” the bane of Claude’s current existence crooned, blowing a soft puff of air into his ear. “Not likely.”

Not wasting a moment, Claude leapt from the roof and into the trees, landing hard on a rather sturdy branch. He heard faint movement behind him, circling around him further into the trees, and waited. In a flash, he drew three more knives from the depths of his jacket and threw them towards a flicker of red to his left. This time, he had more or less hit his mark.

A mortified yelp pierced the air, and the blur finally stilled, landing haphazardly on a branch a ways away and finally giving Claude a full view—albeit shaded in the spotted light of the forest—of exactly what—no, _who_ —he was dealing with.

A human-like figure, smartly dressed in butler-esque attire, stood tall on mid-height heels colored black and a garish red that matched the torn overcoat—three holes, ragged but precise and close together—currently being held out and examined. The figure’s pouting face was slim, pointed, accented by red-framed glasses attached to a beaded glasses chain draped around its owner’s pale, mid-collared neck. As if that were not enough, long, blood-red hair splayed and flowed from the figure’s head down to about the knees, giving an overall appearance of some sort of disturbed, partly-bloomed rose. Tucked in a crooked elbow hung a chainsaw, gaudily designed in scarlet and gold, sharp-toothed blade just reaching the branch below, and its high-pitched, mechanical whirring now— _finally_ —silent.

(Claude thought against mentioning the rose metaphor, guessing through recent experience that the comment would be taken strikingly as a compliment, and he very _very_ much did not want that.)

Claude eyed the figure, a scrutinizing gaze confirming what he had been suspecting: Grim Reaper. He knew without needing a closer look that this... (clearly not human) being... would have sharp green eyes behind those completely necessary glasses; such sharp eyes would hold neither remorse nor regard for the sanctity and preciousness—and, dare he say, _deliciousness_ —of a human soul, rather seeing it as just another _thing_ to slice and end and collect with that over-the-top Death Scythe dangling so innocently and nonchalantly in the open air.

A disgusted scowl pinched his brow and nose, and he took the moment’s pause to settle into a readied stance, more cutlery poised between his fingers but not thrown.

The Reaper, on the other hand, let the overcoat fall away in a flutter of fabric, stomped a foot, looking rather visibly flustered.

“How _dare_ you, you bloody _knock-_ off?!” they cried, voice that had been low and borderline sultry in Claude’s ear now shrill with offense. “This was my Sunday best and I’d _just_ had it cleaned, oh...” The Reaper trailed off, tutting away in derision under their breath.

Claude narrowed his eyes, very nearly rolled them. “I am not sure what you are referring to by calling me that,” he lied, having at least a vague idea as to what the Reaper was referring to, “but—”

The Reaper scoffed—a loud, pompous noise somewhere between a guffaw and a cough. “Don’t be coy, dearie. You’re just a cheap version of my _darling—_ ” It seemed as though they were about to say a name, but pressed a finger to their lips instead. “A ruddy sequel, never to be as spectacular as the first.” They had devolved into speaking with grandiose gestures, something nigh on Shakespearean, to Claude’s dismay. “Shame, that,” they continued, wiping away a nonexistent tear before breaking into a wicked grin: an ear-to-ear display of unnaturally pointed, shark-like teeth. “I’d’ve liked to have _two_ of him.”

The demon fought against a scowl, but failed, thin lips twisting into something malignant. Feeling a surge of determination, he reached up and removed his spectacles, tucking them away in an inner pocket of his suit jacket. He fixed his gaze, cold and expressionless (as it should be), and said, “Phantomhive sent you.” It wasn’t a question.

With a click of their tongue, the Reaper swung their chainsaw in a large arc, lodging it into the side of the tree behind them with a hearty _thuck._ They leaned on the box of the Scythe, nudging their glasses down their thin, sharp nose to peer over them, heavy-lidded and smug and working right at Claude’s last nerve.

“I’m not sure what you are referring to, dearie. I’m just a deadly good butler,” they proclaimed, finishing off the ludicrous statement with a wink and a grand gesture of his free hand, tongue sticking out mockingly.

No, Claude had been wrong. _Now_ the Reaper was working at his last nerve—or tap dancing on it, more like.

“You’re a pitiful excuse for a butler, if one at all,” he said, launching lightly into the air and darting to a tree branch a few meters closer to the red-clad nuisance, who instinctively followed suit, dislodging their chainsaw in a twirl and hopping to a tree farther away. They landed in a pirouette, scoffing again.

“And you _are?_ Ha! Pot,” they held out a graceful, leather-gloved hand, pointing at Claude briefly before bringing the hand back and holding it flush to their chest, “meet kettle. Darling, _please_ , you—” There was a sudden, sweet chime, and the Reaper, brow raised, held out the same hand again and peered at a wristwatch. They sucked in air through their teeth—a distracting, hissing sound—and tilted their head. “Oh, I would so _love_ to get into the grittier details with you—I truly _truly_ would and there is absolutely _no_ sarcasm to that statement whatsoever, _no_ , not at _all_ —ah, but I am on a rather tight schedule...”

Claude’s grip on the knives tightened. “What do you mean, ‘grittier details’?”

The Reaper rolled their eyes, groaning. “Typical man—only hearing the words a lady says about _him_ and ignoring the rest.” They take the chainsaw in both hands, whirring the motor threateningly. “I _just_ said I’m on a tight schedule, dear, so I—”

A yelp cut off the Reaper’s spiel as they quickly dodged the few knives Claude had casually thrown their way. The knives stuck to the tree behind their head, sunk to the hilt in the bark. The Reaper stared at them a moment, affronted, and bared their teeth in a hostile glower.

“Un _fair,_ you second-rate Sebby!” they screeched, and lunged, the Scythe screaming in their wake.

The cry didn’t go unnoticed by Claude—though he had not needed much more convincing that this Reaper was here on Phantomhive and Michaelis’ orders. He leapt from his branch, watching blankly as it was severed violently mere seconds later. He let fly several more knives, rhythmically taking more from his jacket only to release them a split second later. Somehow, the pest was able to dodge every one, becoming a blur again.

Claude’s lip curled as he let loose another failing flurry. Were he human, he was sure that his blood pressure would be dangerously high. Just _who_ was this Grim Reaper, and how did they come to be under the order of Phantomhive? And worse, how much did they know?

Further thought only pushed Claude to move quicker, advance farther, attack harsher. Logic would dictate that such agitation would make the butler sloppy, but no—Claude prided himself on being a sensible being. Logical, forthright, driven. Something so brash and annoying to focus on would only hone those attributes.

Wouldn’t you think so?

As such, the butler soon began to gain the upper hand, flitting about the trees with stoic and graceful ease and landing knives mere centimeters from the Reaper’s head. They sailed past, through trees, and through the haze of his frenzy, Claude vaguely heard the distant crash of glass, one by one. He clicked his tongue. Perhaps construction would be on the schedule, after all.

“H-how many... knives... do you have... in that, _oh—!”_ the Reaper wheezed between ragged pants, ducking from a particularly close blade. They swung around a narrower tree, gripping a branch above them, hair whipping out to the side. They shot Claude a befuddled look. “And just _where_ are you keeping th—actually, strike that last, I don’t want to know.”

The game continued—something akin to cat and mouse, if a mouse had a deadly blade half its height and cackled like a banshee—with the two beings jumping and whirling and battering the forest to bits.

“You know, darling,” the Reaper piped, arching through the air and digging a jagged cut into the tree Claude had just been perched in, “you've gotten much better than I remember. Good on you!”

Claude hesitated, just for the briefest of moments, grappling back in his memory for some appearance of the Reaper, for they were particulary… unforgettable. It was a foolish mistake, as the Reaper took the chance to spring towards him, far too close, eyes flashing—(ah, yes, there were the emerald green irises, the outer ring of a lighter hue, overall ethereal and unnecessarily bright).

The butler dropped like dead weight to the forest floor below and broke into a sprint, feeling a sudden twist of anger as the Reaper gleefully followed in pursuit. For the moment, the game roles had switched, and Claude sought to remedy that.

He pulled ahead at breakneck speed, hearing pathetic protests shouted from behind. Normally he would ignore them—or any such unnecessary sounds coming from his adversary—but here he listened, waiting for the Reaper to pick up the pace, baiting them to focus only on catching up to the butler ahead.

The chase took to the trees once more, maintaining its speed. Eying a particularly thick branch just ahead, Claude took a single knife in his hand and twisted in the air. Midway through his arc toward the branch, he threw it, aiming for the space between the Reaper’s suddenly widening eyes.

A shocked cry rang out and, unable to completely dodge the blade due to momentum and speed, the Reaper tilted their head, gritting their teeth as the knife just barely brushed past their cheek and sliced cleanly through their beaded glasses chain. The force knocked the thin frames askew, and the Reaper blinked hard, disoriented.

They paused, stumbling on the nearest branch, and moved to fix them, but another knife flew and knocked them out of the Reaper’s hand _._

With a short, hissed expletive, the Reaper gripped tightly onto their Scythe and squinted in Claude’s general direction. “How _dare_ you take away a lady’s vision, you copycat bastar—”

Claude lunged at the Reaper, descending from above, kicking their chainsaw away and sending it careening noisily to the forest floor. He whirled, sweeping the Reaper’s legs out from under them—but before they could plummet completely from the branch, Claude gripped them roughly by the throat, shoving them back in a half-crouch against the trunk of the tree.

He loomed over them, face almost completely in shadow, and rumbled in an uncharacteristically hoarse voice, “What do you want?”

The Reaper’s eyes shook, the bright green flicking back and forth, and their lips parted—an overall expression of shock. They took a moment, swallowing—Claude felt the movement under his hand and only gripped tighter—and gave something of a half-hearted shrug, chirping, “Well... I want my glasses back, first of all. I was _going_ to ask if you could so kindly get them for me, but I daresay I don’t need them at this distance.” They flashed a smug grin, all teeth. “You know, you look better blurry, darling. If I squint hard enough...” They tilted their head, straining against Claude’s grip. “Yes, and maybe with a drink or ten in me... _Oh ho,_ yes, you could pass as a rather good Sebastian...”

Something sharp and hot shot through Claude. Feeling rather fed up, he reared back, pulled the Reaper forward just enough to make their heels scramble on the tree bark, and slammed them back against the trunk, eliciting something between a gasp and a yelp from their lips. The force sent a shockwave through the tree, causing the very top to crack, teeter, and eventually break fully. It fell over, landing uncomfortably close to the manor house.

The noise was almost deafening, but all during, and even into the proceeding silence, Claude glared daggers at the Reaper, a vague hint of a glow shining through. He leaned in close to the dazed Reaper and voiced another inquiry, this time a little more calmly.

“What were you sent for? What do you know?”

The Reaper blinked heavily, head swaying a bit. They shook it, wincing and tonguing at a split in their lip where a bead of blood was starting to form. It rather went well with the rest of the pest’s ensemble.

Another grin, this time a little weaker and with a lesser-focused squint in the eye, spread across the Reaper’s thin face. He rasped, gaze dropping, “Is that another knife in your pocket, darling, or are you just _that_ happy to see me all battered and bloody?”

Claude pressed his eyes shut, inhaled. He shifted inhumanly and stabbed the tree bark just next to the Reaper’s face with a gleaming gold blade.

It rattled, vibrating from the force of the impact, and the Reaper let out a high pitched squeal, flinching away as several red strands of hair fell away and drifted lightly to the forest floor. “ _Knife!_ Knife! Going to go with _knife!”_

“Answer me,” Claude said.

Green irises shifted, narrowed even further, giving Claude a once-over that strikingly reminded him of those he’d received from Madame Gallagher weeks ago.

“Demanding...” the Reaper mused, but was quick with a panicked “ _Ah, ah, ah!_ ” when Claude shifted again threateningly. They held up their hands in semblance of surrender. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, dearie, but I’ll have you know...” They glanced about, dipping to a whisper. “I’m a _bit_ more aware of this particular situation than I believe you—and my little brat of an _employer—_ would like me to be.” Their eyes lost the squint, turned cold and dark, and their grin seemed to be more malicious than before.

Claude pressed tighter on the Reaper’s throat, leaned closer. “What are you babbling about?”

The Reaper strained against him, wincing, moving a hand to grip the butler’s wrist in a feeble attempt to lessen the pressure. The bead of blood welled up and dripped down the Reaper’s chin.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” they snapped. “But anyway...” In a flash, the Reaper’s previous vibrancy returned, a wicked grin playing on their features. “I’m also the queen of double entendre, darling.” The free hand not gripping at Claude’s wrist flicked outwards, and a pair of comically small scissors—no bigger than the palm of Claude’s hand—dropped from the inside of the Reaper’s sleeve and into their gloved palm. With a sharp cry, they quickly move to stab Claude, arcing for his neck, but the demon had already jumped away.

“Did you think a proper lady wouldn’t have a backup, love?” the Reaper laughed, rising to their feet and rubbing at their neck, where already a blotchy red mark was forming. After a moment they whipped out that hand as well, and a second pair of scissors appeared, fitting nicely in their readied fingers—like they were somehow used to the ridiculous weapons. They hopped down from the broken tree to where their glasses had landed, narrowly avoiding Claude’s thrown cutlery all the way, and snatched them up.

“You sure skipped out quick,” crooned the Reaper, fixing the frames back on their face before wiping—wait, no, _licking_ —away the blood at their lip. They held up their scissors, mockingly smug again. “Afraid of a little _snip snip_ , dearie?” There was a small chorus of high-pitched metallic scrapes as they rhythmically snapped the scissors shut a few times. “I don’t blame you. Oh, what I’ve done with th _ese_ —!” They finished with a shout, cut off by several _thuck_ s as gold blades formed a halo against the tree behind their head.

Claude, standing tall atop a branch high above the Reaper, offered, “If you are not going to tell me what I want to know, leave.”

The scissors _snipped_ open, and the Reaper settled back into a crouch, clicking their tongue. “Not until I earn my pay, darling.”

They sprang into the air, and the game, once again, continued. Only now, the two engaged in something of a sword fight—blade for blade, red-handled scissors versus polished dining ware. They clashed in the air, Claude’s knives catching in the crook of opened scissors, the Reaper dodging and aiming jabs and kicks at the demon, Claude retaliating with quick punches and stabs. He would never admit it—particularly not to his master—but he and the Reaper seemed to be evenly matched in this setup. The thought made his blood boil, and he cursed the absence of his subordinates, making a mental note to... _inquire_ about their whereabouts later.

Adding insult to injury, when Claude reached into his jacket for another handful of blades and came up empty, he nearly shouted in frustration.

He glanced down.

And he immediately regretted it.

In the corner of his vision, he glimpsed a flicker of light—a metallic glint of something flying alarmingly close alarmingly fast. The Reaper had let fly one of the scissors in the moment of Claude’s hesitation, and while it didn’t hit flesh, the sharp double blades pierced the sleeve of the butler’s suit jacket just at the shoulder, yanking him back and pinning him to the nearest tree. His hand flew to the scissors, hooking two fingers in the handles and pulling—and he nearly yelled a second time when the blades did not budge.

Moments passed as he struggled—baffled, nearly seething—and the Reaper laughed. _Laughed._ They swooped a ways away, over to where their Death Scythe had fallen, and peered at the butler with a look of absolute amusement.

They shrugged, palms up, jacket falling farther down their shoulders to settle in the crooks of their elbows. They looked downright nonchalant, and Claude found he could barely form coherent thought. Everything in his mind was just... _red_.

“I’d love to say I hate to run and leave you pegged so cruelly, darling...” the Reaper called, hefting the chainsaw over their shoulder and winking, “but I would be lying. I still have work to do if I’m to get what I want. No hard feelings! Ta-ta!” And with a final cackle that would rattle in the back of Claude’s brain for the rest of his immortal life, the Reaper flit away, back in the direction of Trancy Manor.

Claude stared after them, exhaling heavily through his nose. He gripped the scissors again, yanking with two hands, and with a ridiculous amount of effort, finally dislodged them, leaving a large tear in his suit jacket but not particularly bothered about it. He stared at the weapon—could it even be _called_ a weapon?—in his palm, measuring the weight. Brow knit, he wondered how it could have the kind of power to fend off his blades _and_ make him struggle with dislodging it.

A rather concerning _boom_ echoed out then, sounding something like crumbling stone, and Claude shook his head, trading the scissors in his hand with the spectacles from his inner pocket. He adjusted them, narrowing his gaze out at the ruin of the forest—the downed branches and shattered tree trunks.

Something in his mind told him that he should hurry to the manor, to his master—(What had the Reaper called Phantomhive? A little brat of an employer? He could relate.)—but an atypical fatigue settled over him, and he found that he could spare a moment, that the great Alois Trancy could use a bit of a scare before Claude inevitably swooped in to save the day. As usual.

As goddamn usual.

He reluctantly leapt into the trees, his thoughts brought back to wondering from where and when the Reaper knew him. An instance, years and years in the past, began to surface in his memory, but he immediately suppressed it, refusing to return to that time of weakness. He must be wrong. He had to be.

He forced himself to think of Phantomhive, of attaining his soul at last after all this time. It was really the only thought that kept him going these days. But then Trancy Manor came into view, with its violet roofing dotted with spikes of gold and other remnants of the fight, and he forced his thoughts onto nothing at all.

* * *

Something made a loud noise. Something so big it shook the walls, rattling the vase on a side table as Alois bolted past with his fiancée in tow. He whimpered, stumbling, and found that he didn’t feel like much of a hero, after all, though he would be the last to let anyone know.

“What was that?!” Lady Gallagher gasped, grip tightening in Alois’ hand.

“C-construction,” the earl offered pathetically, rolling his eyes at how unconvincing he sounded even to himself.

“Construc—? For God’s _sake_ , My Lord... I can honestly say that I’ve never witnessed renovations like _this_ before... Where are we even going now?!”

“Uh... The kitchen...?”

“ _What? For wh—?!”_

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? Let’s steal a snack.”

_“Earl Trancy you cannot honestly think that you are fooling me anymore with this construction twaddle—”_

Alois stopped suddenly, rounding on her, eyes wide with unconcealed panic and not really caring much about it. “You know what? Fine. I _don’t_ know what it is. Alright? Does that satisfy you?” He searched her face, only finding mild shock as she pressed her lips tight together. “Brilliant. Now if you could just shut up and come _on..._ ” He gave her hand a tug, noting briefly how warm it felt in his, and how it actually wasn’t as small as he had thought. (It fit... kind of nicely? _No, stop that. Not important._ )

“Did you just tell me to shut u _WAHH!”_ The lady squawked as Alois yanked her around a corner in the hall, and he would have smirked, nearly did, had he not just turned down another window-lined hall like the idiot he was.

He gritted his teeth, quickened his pace, wondered three things all at once:

  1. What the _hell_ was going on outside the mansion?
  2. Why hadn’t Claude taken care of it yet? and
  3. Where did the wench find the _gall_ to call him, a respectable nobleman, a trickster?! It was only obvious that _he_ was the hero. Perhaps maybe not _Right Now,_..! Oh, and _she_ said _she_ could take on the hero’s role? Ha! And _ha!_



(Alright, perhaps that last one was not very important at the moment, but Alois thought it nonetheless.)

A shattering noise came from behind, and the two stumbled. Three more followed, increasingly closer, and Alois chanced a glance over his shoulder, praying to whatever deities that were listening—(well, first of all, to ask if they were _enjoying the bloody show_ )—that the wench wasn’t looking.

Shards and bits of glass littered the floor, and out one of the in-tact windows, Alois glimpsed some human-shaped form streak through the trees, followed closely behind by a second figure that looked suspiciously like Claude.

A curious cocktail of emotions swam around Alois’ head—fear, dread, shock, and some vague spark of recognition seated deep in the back of his mind when it came to the figure in red. He decided not to think on that too much.

His gaze flicked back to Lady Gallagher then, and in that instance, time seemed to slow. She had a focused set to her face, lips parted, panting, brow furrowed in strain. That mane of hers had completely escaped its pins and ties, and long locks fell about her face. Alois didn’t know why, but he remembered their dance again, just for a moment.

They took a turn, Alois thanking the stars for the lack of windows, and slowed down to a trot. He was figuring exactly where they were in the mansion—the damn place was a maze sometimes, and even Alois got lost on occasion—and it took him several seconds to realize that Lady Gallagher was speaking.

He blinked. “What?”

She scoffed. “Again with the ignoring. You said kitchen, correct?”

“Yes...?”

She tugged on his hand, gestured down a set of stairs. “This way is quicker, then.”

Alois shook his head, eyes fluttering, but allowed himself to be pulled along. He added another thought to his list.

  * How did she know her way around the mansion so well?



He supposed he’d wondered what she did in the days where he successfully avoided her. She couldn’t possibly read for _all_ that time, so... Where did she go? What did she do? Just... mingle about? Talk about... hair or something with Hannah?

If they survived today, he would ask, if only just to sate his childish curiosity.

The next few minutes passed in relative silence, with only the occasional distant cackle and the duo’s clicking heels on the floor sounding around them. Alois let out an audible sigh of relief as the kitchen door came into view, and he jogged ahead of Lady Gallagher to wrench it open for them.

The kitchen was rather large, prep tables splitting the room in two with appliances, cupboards, and counter space lining the outer walls. A pleasant stream of sunlight shone in from the mid-sized windows on the far wall, bracketed by opened curtains. It looked strange in the daytime. Usually Alois snuck down for a late night snack when the rest of the house was asleep—(Well, some of them, at least. To this day Alois wasn’t sure if demons actually slept.)—and was used to faded moonlight casting the room in rich, blue-black shadow.

Lady Gallagher leaned against one of the prep tables, hands on her hips, staring at the floor. Between labored breaths, she scolded, “You really had to take such a long way just to get here, didn’t you? Did you plan on even coming here in the first place?”

Alois, who’d had his ear pressed against the kitchen door listening for... anything, threw her a look. “Listen here, _my lady._ I was a little preoccupied in the moment, and I—”

“Preoccupied with stroking your own ego, hmm?”

Alois knocked his head on the door as he whipped around. “ _Agh,_ my _what_?”

The lady narrowed her eyes at him, let out a breath. She waved her hands in front of her in an attempt to clear the air. “Forget that. Just... Just _what_ is going on? Everything was fine in the library, we were having a grand old time, then...”

“Yes... _grand_...” Alois murmured, a distant thought making him lock the door for good measure. He ran a hand through his hair, shuffling the strands, and strode further into the room. “I meant what I said before. I _don’t_ know what’s happening. Claude said construction, so it’s construction.”

She just stared at him, head tilted down—had she been wearing glasses, she’d be peering over them, like Claude did sometimes. The thought made him chuckle grimly, a short puff of air out his nose, and the lady seemed to read into it.

“He really pulls the strings around here,” she said softly, “doesn’t he?”

 _You have no idea_ , Alois thought instantly, and had to bite his tongue—with its binding contract mark—from saying it aloud. He was too on edge about Claude to play off the hold the demon had on him with a laugh, but... she couldn’t know that. Any of that. Claude would kill him.

...

_Ah, yes, I see the problem._

Alois shook his head, huffed out a heartier laugh. “Claude? Not at all. He’s _my_ butler. He works for _me.”_ It felt odd, somehow, lying through his teeth. “I’m in charge and... and...” He watched her blink slowly, knew she didn’t believe him. He swallowed thickly. “Would you let _your_ maid walk all over you?”

The lady seemed offended. “Absolutely not. She advises me, has taken care of me for years and still does sometimes, but that is all. I’m not a child anymore. Nor are _you_.”

Alois smirked. “I thought you _liked_ being childish. Liked _me_ being childish. You said as much back there.”

Lady Gallagher’s mouth hung open. She shifted, looking away. “That... That is different—”

“So, wait, let me see if I understand this,” Alois said, taking slow strides forward. “So you find it... _compelling_ that I act childish—‘flit about the manor causing trouble,’ as you say—only to find fault in me taking a simple order from my butler—hold on, I am not finished.” He held up a hand when she tried to protest. “And you said previously that you _too_ are childish... but you then find that _you_ are more suited to be a heroine—and _yes,_ I know that a female hero is a heroine, don’t look so surprised—but anyway, you _then_ go on to say that you don’t allow your maid—God _knows_ where she is, honestly—to ‘walk all over you.’ Claude _doesn’t_ walk all over me. He advises me, as what’s-her-face advises you, albeit a bit more intensely I will admit. So, with all of that in mind... tell me, my lady,” he paused, close enough to touch her, staring down with a seriousness he had worked up in himself, “which would you have me be? Childish fairy, or a bit more grown-up hero?”

He didn’t know if it was the mounting pressure of the day, or of past weeks or months, or of his entire existence had led him to think and analyze everything so easily as he had. To be honest, he surprised himself. But anyway, the question hung in the air like a mist, the lady gaping at him. Alois’ mouth felt dry from speaking so much, and he had a slight, sinking feeling that he would regret all of that later.

Lady Gallagher shook her head, just a little, and started to speak, but that was when the wall caved in.

Perhaps the sharp, exuberant shout preceding should have been an indication that the Trancy Manor was still under some sort of attack. Well, Alois was brazenly reminded of that fact as the center statue of the largest fountain from the back garden—some cherub abomination just short of the height of the kitchen itself—took out stone and wood and cupboards alike. It even dismantled one of the large cast-iron stoves by the window in its wake, altogether in devastating crash that started a low ringing in Alois’ ears as he and Lady Gallagher ducked away from the blast, instinctively reaching for each other without a hesitant thought.

Rubble crumbled to the floor, struggling to settle, and Alois looked up first, squinting and coughing through the dust. Perched on the ruined remains of the fountain an impossible distance away stood the red figure from earlier, tall and flowing in a comically gentle breeze with a sharp grin. They hefted up a screaming, whirring weapon that drove a chill straight down Alois’ spine.

Colder yet was—ironically—the spark of recognition Alois had felt before as it bloomed into a more assured flame.

Lady Gallagher was yelling, and Alois felt it more than heard it, felt her wriggling in protest as he gripped her shoulders. In the distance, Claude appeared, descending from somewhere and landing a kick square against the figure’s head, knocking them both out of the limited view Alois had through the hole in the wall. He watched, entranced, thoughts racing and oddly painful and... and his fiancée’s voice started sounding louder, less like it was underwater.

“ _God..._ Wh... Wh-what the _hell_?! The _wall_ just—Earl Trancy, I... I think... Earl Tr-Trancy? Earl—oh _sod_ it— _Alois!_ Alois, look at me. _Look_ at me. You’re bleeding!”

He seemed to surface then, loosening his grip on the lady and registering her voice clearly again... as well as the growing, throbbing pain on his forehead. He reached up, but Lady Gallagher beat him to it, brushing tentative fingers through his bangs, pushing them aside. She winced, freckled nose wrinkling at whatever her worried gaze had found. Her fingers came away red. Alois oddly found it hard to care.

A laugh—closer, clearer, wilder—made the two jolt. Lady Gallagher went to turn, inquiring rather colorfully what the _ahem_ that was, just as Claude and the interloper reappeared in the distance, clashing and dodging each others’ attacks.

Alois sucked in a panicked breath through his teeth, reaching out and grabbing her by her shoulders again, making her face fully away from the brawl. When he looked down at her again, she had a deeply perturbed expression pinching her features. He realized vaguely that his teeth were still bared, and he quirked up the corners of his mouth in a (terribly unconvincing) grin, let an uneasy laugh slip out.

“Um, um,” he said, unable to keep his eyes from flicking between the hole in the wall and her gaze on him, quickly turning into something suspecting and borderline irritated. “I-it’s dangerous and you should... probably get out of here.”

His fingers gripped tighter, moving to her forearms and pulling, but she refused to budge, taking a step back to get out of his reach. She didn’t have much room to go anywhere, though, with the jostled, debris-covered prep table just behind her.

“Even to just look at...?” she muttered, turning her head. “Don’t be ridi—”

Her chide was cut off by a gasp as Alois moved again, this time gripping the sides of her face, turning it back, holding her in place. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t _know_.

She resisted, and he didn’t blame her. She asked what had gotten into him, gripped his wrists, confused... but faltered, softened, when she met his eyes.

Alois wasn’t sure what she saw in him—in... in his _expression_ —but he liked to think he was maintaining something of a level stare. Something firm, resolute... but he was sure there was that panic again, that fear from before, that dread that he hadn’t realized had made him so... tired. He couldn’t let her see, couldn’t let her know.

Everything would unravel, Claude would surely—possibly _literally_ —kill him, and she... she would leave. Leave the manor—the _country,_ for God’s sake—and he would be alone again, a lone mortal among a seedy gang of the supernatural in a house too big for him that... that wasn’t even really _his_ , God... what... _what_ was he doing? How had... _how_ had he not fallen apart in the years he’d lived here? Or maybe... he _had_ fallen apart, Hell-bent on taking his revenge, and Ciel always _always_ just narrowly escaping from his fingertips. He _needed_ to do this, exact his revenge, be the hero—it was literally all he had left. And now, when he was getting close again...

“What... are you doing?” Aoife said gently, concerned, almost in a whisper and barely audible over the clamor outside but for some reason he could hear her loud and clear, feel the light puff of breath from her lips against his skin. She searched his face, those clover green eyes of hers flickering between his, eyebrows just the least bit knit, and Alois found himself wanting to smooth the wrinkle the small action was causing, trace the line of her brow out to the edge, where that little scar sat.

If they survived this, he would ask about that, too.

And it hit him just then that he genuinely wanted to ask—ask a lot of things. Where did the scar come from, how did she know the manor layout so well, what made her more hero-worthy than him, why she read so much, what she did on the days he didn’t see her, how did she meet that blasted Midford girl, how did she know that song from that night on the balcony, why did she hate her maid so much, what were her favorite fairy tales in that book of hers, why did she smell like parchment and cinnamon at breakfast and fresh cotton and morning dew when they met in the library so, so many times—and all of this, _all of this_ , he _knew_ he would _never_ know if she left, if right now she turned, if she saw, if she knew. Everything was riding on him getting her to stay _safe_ and be _with him_ and... and maybe even _love_ _him_ and, God, he wasn’t sure if that was possible but he could try, _try_ to make her love him, if that’s what it would take to make her stay. He wasn’t sure where this want to try was coming from, but he figured he could wallow in that emotional mess later. Yes... later, when they were both safe again, huddled in the library enjoying their respective activities and—(alright, all bets are off)—and enjoying each other’s company. For some reason he wanted all of this... _all of this_... so badly...

He needed to be the hero. In this moment, especially. He’d read enough to know what they do, how they act and attract and cherish the person they’re always undoubtedly fighting for and... alright, yes, Alois could see how he was a trickster, a fairy, something silly and pathetic and always at his butler’s beck and call, even though she... _Aoife_ was right... right that _he_ should be calling the shots, that _he_ should take a stand and _call a damn shot so— so—_

—so he did.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Alois shifted forward, closing the already-small gap between him and his fiancée. He tilted her face up, fingers trailing back to weave through the wild curls and waves behind her ears, thumbs brushing over her cheeks, soft and round and pink and dotted with marks from the sun. He caught a glimpse of her widening eyes—annoyingly bright against the contrast of her hair—just before he closed his own and pressed his lips to hers.

Just like he’d read in all the fairy tales.

The moment they’d touched, she’d stilled, frozen, and Alois had a brief worry that she would push him away in exactly three, two, _one_...

Aoife seemed to all but melt, the tenseness in her gradually loosening as she returned the kiss. ( _Kiss_ , Alois thought, _I am kissing her. We are kissing. This is a thing that is happening._ ) Her grip on Alois’ forearms tightened ever-so-slightly, pulling at him a moment before falling away to rest lightly against the velvet green of his vest.

He tilted her chin up, pressing just that bit more, realizing and mulling over the fact that she tasted like honey and mint... but then several things happened at once.

A low hum came up from Aoife’s throat—Alois could feel the vibration through his fingertips—and he felt her lips, soft and dry and chastely closed, part just a bit. The little movement, for some reason, sent a panicked shock through the earl, and his eyes snapped open. At the same time, he had miscalculated his balance and stumbled forward, pressing up against her and causing her to push the prep table behind her, resulting in a grating, scraping sound that made them both jump. Alois broke away, eyes wide, face flushed and burning. His hands remained on her cheeks, and he could feel how warm they felt, how warm _she_ felt. He pulled them away, and they hovered in the air awkwardly, her own arms still crooked between them.

Both seemed to be breathing a little heavier than before, and just... couldn’t stop staring at each other, as though trying to gauge from the other’s expression if that had just happened or not.

Aoife spoke first, or tried to. Her voice came out breathy and cracked, so she cleared her throat and tried again.

“H-how hard did you hit your head?”

Alois let out a short, airy laugh. The question hadn’t sounded like the sarcastic, mocking comment he would have expected. It was genuine concern. Or at least, he thought it was. Maybe she _was_ mocking him, but the fog currently settling in his brain made it hard to tell, hard to feel anything.

Several crashes rang out again in the air, and they were close—the backing orchestration for their little adventure resuming after their... brief moment of reprieve, we shall call it.

Alois immediately looked to the hole in the wall, willing the fog to dissipate from his mind as he and Aoife ducked behind the prep table. There was a distant... not a laugh this time, but more of a strange, affectionate cooing, followed by yelling: a man’s voice, then a woman’s, several others’ shouts. Flits of purple streaked past his view through hole—four, by Alois’ count—and it seemed that the other servants had joined the fray at last. The thought brought a well-needed bloom of relief to the knot in the young man’s chest.

He looked down at Aoife, and found he was nearly crouching over her. He examined her face, glazed over and contemplative, staring at the floor between them, and shuffled backwards a bit, felt a prickling blush creep up his neck. More frantic shouts filtered in from outside.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, squeezing her forearms a little. She looked up, something heavy in her gaze he couldn’t read, and gave the barest hint of a nod. He offered her a weak smile, a quirked up brow in question, and she responded a little more strongly, exhaling a sigh, lips turning up at the corners. With a sharp nod of her head, she shuffled to stand, all limbs and skirts tangled and mixed with scattered rubble.

In a swift motion, Alois rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. He took her hand—still warm and perhaps a little sweaty from stress—and led her to the kitchen door, brushing off some of the dust that had accumulated on her dress. He noted a tear by her hip, thought it a shame. He was starting to like the color on her.

Alois unlocked and opened the door, motioning for her to go through and giving an encouraging push as she crossed the threshold. He didn’t follow, and she noticed, spinning round.

“What are you—?” she started.

“Go on ahead. It should be safe in the library again. I’ll meet you there,” Alois assured her, offered a sly grin that made him feel more like himself again. He leaned against the doorway, cocked his head to the side. “Then you can tell me more about these fairy tales I need to study.”

Aoife blinked, looking like she was fighting against a smirk, but confusion took over and she splayed her hands out. “You want me to go back by myself and leave you _alone_. After... after all that?”

The earl winced, not really wanting that at all, and his expression turned apologetic. (Could he even _do_ apologetic? Genuinely?) “I’ll see if I can have a word with... _construction_ about—oh, work with me please, don’t look at me like that. I’ll have someone sent to catch up with you in a few minutes, alright? I’m sure a _heroine_ can handle herself for at least that long.”

Aoife scoffed, shaking her head. “Fine,” she said, backing up with a playful skip in her step. She held up a finger threateningly. “But you and I are going to have a serious conversation when you return to the library, and not just about fairy tales. Mark my words, _Trancy_.”

She turned then, hair undone and swinging with the momentum. Alois almost thought he could feel a breeze from the volume of curls. He shook his head and called, “That I will, Aoife.”

A sadistic laugh spilled from his own lips as he watched her trip over her own feet while trotting off.

Alois closed the door again, pressing the palm of his hand to the wood and letting out the biggest sigh of his life, thoughts running away as he tried to figure out how to get his servants’ attention and what to say to Claude and how he was going to get so filthy climbing through that rubble and... and so much more all at once. He ran his other hand roughly through his hair, not thinking, and wincing when he came across the cut by his hairline. His fingertips were covered in bits of dried blood when he looked at them, and he felt a small drip run down his cheek. He swore, fluttering around for a rag or something to press against the wound.

“Now is that any way to speak in front of a lady?”

An embarrassingly high-pitched cry escaped the earl, and he nearly felt his heart combust. He whirled on his feet, gaze snapping to where the scolding voice had come from.

It was the red figure, sitting casually in the hole in the wall on the partially-busted window sill. They had a leg drawn up, bent to their chest, arms wrapped around and leaning their head on it. Their other leg dangled, swinging casually like a pendulum. They had a coy grin set to their thin, sharp face, and Alois felt a chill skitter up his spine as he noted the figure’s unnaturally pointed teeth.

“Darling boy,” they crooned, lifting their head and shaking it slowly. “Now _that_ was something. I give you a... seven out of ten for that performance. Bit of practice and you could be a ten, I’m sure. Or a solid eight-point-five, at least. I mean—”

“Wh-what do you want?!” Alois squeaked, eyes widening as they settled on something leaning against the wall below where the figure was sitti— _holy hell was that a chainsaw?!_

The figure rolled their intensely bright green eyes, visible even from where Alois was standing—(He felt a momentary twinge from how much the color resembled Aoife’s. He pushed the thought aside.)—and groaned. “ _Ugh_ , what _is_ it with everyone here asking me that? It’s rather annoying.”

“Ciel sent you, didn’t he?”

The figure’s head dropped down against their knee, long hair falling and concealing their face and, well, pretty much everything—the stranger had a lot of hair. They let out a second groan, something more of a howl than anything else.

“And the butler said _that_ , too. _God,_ is no one original anymore?” They lifted their head, raising a hand to brush their hair behind their ear and adjust their red-framed spectacles with a quick poke. “Listen, darling, I _really_ don’t have time now. I’ve been reciting that line _all_ day, I _know_ , but anyway, I gave your little posse the slip for the moment— _ha_ , I know it’s nearly impossible to miss _me_ , but sometimes you do what you have to do to—oh and listen to me blathering on and on. Ignore all that, dear, I just _had_ to have a little chat with _you_ once I realized, well—” They cocked their head, throwing a vague gesture directed at Alois, as though it were obvious why they were there, lounging in the remnants of a ruined kitchen that _they_ had destroyed.

Alois fluttered his eyes, processing. He took a tentative step forward, keeping a reaching hand near the kitchen utensils currently out on the counter in case he had need of—he glanced at them and deflated— _spoons._ Brilliant. He let his hand drop back to his side and squinted back at the figure.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The figure threw him a glare, lips forming a pout. “Alright, dear, strike three. No more questions. Honestly, I don’t know _how_ you could forget about _moi_. For God’s sake, I’m only the one who saved your bloody life.” They ended with a scoff, as if they’d just expressed their annoyance that Alois had stepped on their foot or something otherwise trivial.

Alois, meanwhile, paled. Any and all warmth in him escaped, leaving him cold and empty. He heard wrong, certainly. “What?” he managed after several seconds of trying to get his mouth to work.

The figure sat up straight, brows raised in genuine surprise. “You _don’t_ remember, do you? Oh, how interesting... It _was_ years ago, but...” They tutted, shaking their head. “One doesn’t easily forget a trauma like that. But what would I know? I’ve only seen it countless times in humans’ Records, so...” They trailed off, put off somehow and examining their nails in the sunlight. (Alois wasn’t sure how exactly they were able to do that with a glove on, but he didn’t think it wise or important enough to ask.)

The earl was about to speak, press further on why he didn’t remember that he’d almost died ( _God, just... what?_ he thought.) but the figure let out a trilling _Oh!_ like they’d just remembered something.

“And _speaking_ of Cinematic Records... _Yours_... Goodness me. Drama, love, _drama_.” They shook their head again, Alois wondering if there would be a chance for it to screw completely off their neck from how much they swiveled it around. “Oh, it was just _too_ intriguing to let go so soon... Why, it almost only felt like the first novel in a series, the first Act in a play, the first and only season of a critically acclaimed—oh wait, we aren’t there yet, are we? Oh, no matter. I had to see how it really ends, how it should end. Naturally...”

There was something unsettling about the way the figure said that—was it a scheming tone? intrigued? obsessed? Alois couldn’t tell, wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

“I don’t understand,” he said instead, and he really didn’t. All of this was just... too much. It all went over his head.

The figure regarded him, expression serious and calculating and very different from the cackling maniac that had terrorized the manor for the past hour or so. They looked over their glasses, scrutinizing the earl.

“You know I am a Grim Reaper, correct? In charge of tending to ready-to-depart souls to see if they’re worth saving...” They waved their hand in a lazy little circle for _and so on and so forth._

Alois’ brow wrinkled. “I... I’ve probably read about them in fairy tales.”

The figure hummed, unimpressed. “Of course you have, silly boy. Well, if you’re so _well-read_ , maybe you will know these.” They stood then, perched tall on the sill, bending at the waist to swoop down and grandly brandish their chainsaw, all in quick flowing movements that made Alois stumble back with a whimper.

The Grim Reaper cleared their throat, pressed a hand to their sternum, peered down at the earl with a wink, and recited in a booming, theatrical voice, “‘All the world’s a stage.’” They shifted their pose to something even more dramatic. “‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’” They shifted again, this time staring off into the distance somewhere with something like a knowing smile, though Alois wasn’t sure why. “‘It’s not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe.’” Their grin widened as they ran a finger over the edge of the chainsaw, dragging the blade lightly along its track.

Alois swallowed, took a few more steps back toward the door, vaguely figuring that spoons would be better than nothing if he was going to have to hold his own against this... being. Truth be told he would rather take the flight option, but he’d seen the speed of the red blur in the trees and didn’t suppose he would have much luck outrunning it.

“S-so you let me live once... after I died?” He trembled at the thought as the Reaper nodded, pleased with themself, still absently running the chainsaw blade along the track. It made a light metallic screeching sound that made his teeth chatter. “Are y-you going to k-k-kill me now?” he stuttered.

The Reaper pressed their eyes shut in annoyance, pinching the bridge of their nose. “Did you not hear a _word_ I just said? Does _no_ one listen to me? I _want_ to see your story, darling. See how far your record goes. Call it... a personal project of mine.” They trailed off with a gleeful giggle. “And I suppose it is not just coincidence that it’s you I had to terrorize. Well, specifically your little lady friend you have there.”

Alois felt his heart leap up to his throat, and he eyed the chainsaw blade warily, gulping as it caught in the light. “You were going to kill _her_?” The thought made him tense, like a coil ready to spring. He was suddenly very aware of the stupidity of letting her go off alone.

But the Reaper held out a hand, waving dismissively. “Oh no no, _please_. She’s too important a role, dearie, I wouldn’t _dream_ of it. Scare her, I can do. It’s what I’m being paid for. _Kill_ is out of the description, as ironic as that may seem.” They added darkly, “Though I would so _love_ to run that butler of yours through, taste his blade on my Scythe. Oh, the Record he must have...”

“Y-you didn’t do your job then...” Alois pointed out, if only to get the Reaper to stop looking longingly at his chainsaw like that. It was incredibly off-putting, to say the least. “If you were going to scare her off, it didn’t work...”

“So I see...” The Reaper shifted their stance, casting an analyzing gaze up and down Alois’ frame. “She’s rather enthralled. _Ah_ , young love,” they mused with a wink. Alois choked on air, and the Reaper laughed.

From somewhere far off came the rustling of leaves. The Reaper perked up an ear, listening before making a strained expression, biting their lip. “Ah... that’d be my cue... Well, little hero, best of luck! I expect dazzling things out of you.” They crouched, preparing to launch back into the company of vengeful, territorial demons, but straightened to add, “Ooh, and dearie, if you _ever_ need advice on forepl _AAHH!”_

Something lilac and white dropped from above, barreling heels first into the Reaper and knocking him to the floor in a spluttering, wailing mass of scarlet hair and clothing. Hannah rose to her feet, looking only minorly disheveled, a determined, almost satisfied look on her face as she glared down at the Reaper. Alois stared, stunned to silence. The maid looked up, noticing her master for the first time, and the fierceness in her expression disappeared, replaced with a brief look of surprise before her blank, passive façade took over. She nodded to Alois, dipping into a light curtsey and murmuring “Your Highness” in that soft voice of hers that usually grates right on the earl’s nerves. But all he could do was stare—at the maid, whose strong presence had dissipated in a manner of seconds; at the Reaper under her foot, scrambling for their chainsaw just out of reach; at the sudden appearance of one, two, then all three of the triplets outside the hole in the wall, peering in with deadpanned, obligatory interest.

In the moment that Hannah looked back, beckoning to the triplets, the Reaper had wriggled free. They spring to their feet with a grunt, snatching the chainsaw from the ground and leaping out the hole, narrowly missing Hannah’s outstretched fingers as she bolted after them with a cry. She casted a desperate gaze to Alois, nodded again, and resumed her pursuit, triplets in tow.

Alois wasn’t alone for three seconds—three very long seconds where his mind tried to catch up with the thousand things happening at once—when Claude descended just outside, sneering at the damage done to the manor. His gaze wandered over to his master, and the butler regarded him, scrutinized him.

Struck dumb for only a moment more, Alois shook his head, rattling his thoughts into order.

“Claude, tell one of the trip—Timber, tell Timber to go catch up with Lady Aoife. She’s on her way back to the library alone and he’ll be faster than me.”

The demon did not move, only stared, more still than Alois was used to, if that were possible. A curl of annoyance twisted in Alois’ chest.

He took a breath. _Hero, Alois. Be the hero._ “That’s an _order_ , Claude,” he said firmly, raising his voice to be heard over the distant clamor that had started up again—shouts, squeals, laughter, chainsaw.

The only indications of a response were the light rise of a brow and a swift nod before Claude leapt away, leaving Alois alone.

Relative silence stretched on, and Alois found himself slumping against the nearest prep table. He panted, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. He looked around at the stillness of the ruined kitchen, his eyes catching on a tray of pastries in the far corner that was going to be brought to the library with their tea.

With numb fervor, Alois shuffled over to the tray and shoved one into his mouth, getting powdered sugar all over his lips and chin. He blinked, took up the tray, and made his way to the door. As he crossed the threshold he decided to take the long way back to the library, with the sole purpose in mind of thinking about what in all of the presumably infinite goddamn layers of fresh bleeding hell had just happened.

* * *

“So, I am going to need you to run that by me again, Grell. I’m not sure I fully understand _exactly_ what happened today.”

The Reaper hummed, far too preoccupied with their current situation of being carried—bridal style—by Sebastian, their legs swinging daintily and fingers interlocked around the back of the butler’s neck for good measure. After a content sigh, they dangled their head upside down, obnoxiously bright locks nearly dragging along in the dirt, and sent a petulant glare at the one-eyed little earl walking beside them.

“What’s there to understand, brat? I dropped in, tore the place up a bit, gave that Sebby-clone what for...”

Ciel rubbed at his temples, visible eye squeezed shut. “Yes, yes, that’s all clear, but you actually _talked_ to Trancy?”

“That I did,” Grell sighed, straining to bring their head back up to lean it against Sebastian’s shoulder. “And it all went rather swimmingly, if I do say so my—”

“Swimmingly, you say,” came the smooth rumble of Sebastian’s voice, pitched with just a hint of amusement. “Then perhaps you could enlighten the young master once more on why you were sent flying past the estate’s borders and into a thicket of oak trees on the other side of the stream.”

Grell’s face twisted, nose wrinkling in irritation. “I meant for that to happen...”

“Of course you did,” Ciel muttered.

“It was a _dramatic exit_! All—”

“If you tell me all ladies need one I will order Sebastian to pitch you into that stream.”

Grell wriggled in the demon’s arms. “Don’t patronize the invalid!” he whined.

Ciel scoffed. “ _Invalid..._ You are an immortal, supernatural being. Is it even possibly for you to be—? No, I don’t want to know, don’t answer that.” He huffed, “But anyway, _I’m_ tired, my feet are _killing_ me, I _still_ have a headache... and to top it all off, the carriage horse ran away thanks to _your_ overkill raucous. So _I_ would like to know why _my_ butler is carrying _you_.”

The Reaper let out an affronted gasp. “I am in _pain,_ you _brat._ Not everyone can go up against five demons at once and evade _most_ of their onslaught. I’m lucky that I made it out _alive._ ”

“ _I’m_ not,” Ciel muttered darkly.

Sebastian slid a scolding eye his way. “Young master...”

Ciel’s lip curled, and he snapped back, “Oh, like _you’re_ thrilled Sutcliff made it out in one piece.”

The butler didn’t reply, but pressed his lips together, staring straight ahead at the road stretched out in front of them. This did not go unnoticed by his infatuated charge, who proceeded to frown and grumble.

“Aren’t you a little _old_ to have your employed staff carrying you like an infant? Besides,” Grell snickered, running a finger in wavy patterns down the front of Sebastian’s crisp white shirt, “I _doubt_ you’d enjoy this the way I a _AAHH_!”

The Reaper was promptly dropped to the dirt, flat on their rear end.

“ _Hey!”_ they shouted, rubbing at their tailbone as Sebastian sidestepped them to lift his master—smug grin and all—into his arms. He then called for Snake, who had been a few paces behind them, carrying the Reaper’s Scythe and getting lost in the countryside view. Without a word the blank-faced young man slung the chainsaw over to carry on his back with a makeshift rope made out of... of a snake... (Ciel shivered, planting his gaze anywhere else.) and lifted Grell with ease.

Grell made a whimpering sound, leaning away from Snake a bit (as much as they could) and muttering some complaint about this being the _last time I help you, brat_ , and a concern about a hissing noise. Ciel ignored them. And the hissing. He always tried to ignore the hissing.

The earl let out a contented sigh, settling into the familiar feeling of Sebastian’s arms around him (even after all these years, perhaps he still sometimes had a fondness for feeling like a child, though he would never admit it). “I will hear a full report from you once we get back to the mansion, I suppose.”

They walked in silence, this strange quartet: earl, demon, Reaper, snake-man hybrid. Any passersby would think there was a traveling circus nearby, but Ciel knew that he, as well as Sebastian, would rather not think anything of the sort. (He wasn’t sure about Snake, though, about whether or not he missed the Noah’s Ark Circus. Surely he missed his friends, but... Ciel tried not to think about it.)

An offhanded thought surfaced in Ciel’s mind, and he asked aloud, “Sebastian, how were you able to contact the Grim Reaper Dispatch and have Grell agree to—”

“Do not ask, young master.” The butler had the vaguest hint of a pained expression twisting his usual cool composure.

From their perch in Snake’s arms, Grell swiveled their head around. “Cannot _wait_ to spend the next three weeks with you, Sebby darling,” they mused, winking lasciviously.

Ciel deadpanned. “What.”

The butler chose that moment to keep a tight lip, eyes squinting in distressed anticipation.

But his master erupted. “ _What?! Sebastian!_ Are you—are you _serious?!_ Sebastian, we already have Madame Gallag—oh my God, _Madame Gallagher._ _Sebastian.”_

(Grell scoffed, muttering, “And I thought _I_ cried his name out too much.” Everyone ignored them.)

Sebastian gave Ciel a smile, but it was sheer, a facsimile of the reassuring one he usually had. “I believe the two will get on rather well, do you not?”

Ciel paled at the thought. “I think I’m going to faint.”

“If he faints,” Grell piped up, “we’re switching back! There’s currently a python roping around my feet and, while I’m one for some tying up, this isn’t exactly how I want it to go...”

“Now I think I’m going to throw up...”

Beside him, Ciel heard Snake murmur, “‘I like this one’s shoes. Let’s keep them,’ says Bronte.”

“Shut up, Bronte.”

***

The young Reaper sitting comfortably in his desk chair with his feet up on the side table folded down the newspaper he was reading, a stitch in his brow as he remembered something. He had a look around, bright green eyes narrowed and wavy blond hair falling over his thick-rimmed glasses. He blew the strands aside and stood, wary, gaze running increasingly frantically over the sea of hunched-over heads diligently working away.

With quick steps he made his way to the Management Division, looking for someone else entirely and (thankfully) picking him out in the hustle and bustle of the Dispatch.

“Mr. Spears?” he called, approaching. “I, uh...”

A tall man with neatly-combed brown hair swiveled on the spot, not taking his eyes off the paperwork in the folder in his hand, but quirking an eyebrow in question.

“What is it, Ronald?” he asked, nudging the edge of his glasses higher on his nose with the blade of the long-handled gardening pruner held in his hand.

Ronald scratched the back of his neck, the black hair there bristling. He chuckled uneasily. “So, um... You seen Grell Sutcliff anywhere?”

William T. Spears stilled, gloved finger hovering over the next paper in his folder as though frozen in time. “Are you telling me, Mr. Knox, that Grell Sutcliff is not here?”

“Ah...” Ronald started, gaze flitting anywhere but at the senior Reaper. “Well, I mean... You see...”

“Yes?”

Ronald swallowed. “So... a few days ago they said they got this message, see? A-and they needed to, um, skip out for a few...”

William T. Spears blinked. “A few... what?”

“Days,” the blond Reaper breathed out. “Alright, maybe a week... Or three.”

There was a pause, and the folder snapped shut. William T. Spears pinched the bridge of his nose, his spectacles pushed up and away from his eyes and making him look years—maybe even centuries—younger. “Why didn’t you _tell_ anyone, Ronald?”

“Didn’t think Grell was serious, sir.”

William T. Spears bored holes through Ronald’s head—or it felt like that, at least. He took in a slow, smooth inhale and said, calmly, “No, I don’t suppose anyone does.”

Ronald let out a light laugh. “I mean, I guess it’s healthy, ain’t it? Ditching work, taking a mental break, eh—?”

“No, you are not getting an extension on your paid vacation days.”

“Damnit. Even if it’s to find Grell...?”

“No.”

“ _Damnit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Working on the next one as we speak. Hope you enjoyed! Shoot me comment and let me know what you think.
> 
> Also, random thought, should I mention non-binary Grell in the tags of the story, do you think? I'm still unsure how tags usually work, haha...

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! I'd just like to note that the first few chapters seem very short, but I assure you that they get disgustingly long. And better. So, so much better. Someday I may comb through the first nine again and fix all the mistakes I've made... 
> 
> As of 6/30/16 I should have the first nine chapters up, with chapter ten on the way!
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'm always up for some criticism (though please remember that the first few chapters were written YEARS ago) and flattery -bats eyelashes-
> 
> Have a lovely day/night/etc.!
> 
> \--Kiiro
> 
> P.S. - Ah, by the by, I'll be updating future chapters both on here and on FF.net


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